


Mixed Feelings

by Kithri



Series: Mixed Feelings [1]
Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Child abuse (non-sexual), Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:52:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 526,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6894508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Astrid Berklow has problems, not least of which are a demanding father, an asshole brother, and the facts of life in Brockton fucking Bay. Triggering very publicly solves precisely none of these, but it does give her the opportunity to try to chart her own future, even as the baggage of her past still weighs her down.</p>
<p>Mixed Feelings is a tale of abuse recovery, identity and superpowers, focusing on an original character in the Worm setting. This is a character-driven story exploring the Wards of Brockton Bay, the ordinary men and women working for the Parahuman Response Teams and the human cost of living in a town where the balance of force is tilted solidly towards the gangs. It begins a few months pre-canon and will end around canon start. Scion is Sir-Not-Appearing-In-This-Story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Claustrophobia 1.01

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by my darling wife Tamoline, who introduced me to Worm in the first place.
> 
> Warning:
> 
> Mixed Feelings deals with the subject of long term (non-sexual) child abuse, the aftermath of which deeply affects the protagonist. Additionally, the protagonist's upbringing has left a number of troubling biases and prejudices, ranging from racism to homophobia. These are treated as flaws to be overcome, and I emphatically do not intend to support or encourage these perspectives in any way.
> 
> Somewhat less serious warning:
> 
> Rampant use of ‘all and sundry’ and other Britishisms. This is on the list of things to fix, and I now have a new respect for Americans writing Harry Potter fanfic.
> 
> (Thanks to frustratedFreeboota for helping me improve on my terrible first attempt at a story summary and content warning. Even if he did add some snark at my expense.)

Darkness.

Pressure all around me, holding me in place. Strange sensations prickling over my skin and tickling at the edges of my thoughts. I couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t **breathe**. Where was I? What the fuck was happening? How could I get free? My heart beat faster, thudding against my ribcage as if it was trying to force its way out of my chest, but just as the panic started to grip me in earnest, the pressure around me abruptly loosened. I started moving right away, adrenaline lending strength to my shaking limbs as I frantically dug through the…

_(Close-packed particulate matter, coarse-grained; predominantly silica, with lesser quantities of sodium and potassium. Trace amounts of-)_

_What the fuck?_

But then my head broke free of what I now knew was sand, my confusion swept away by an overwhelming wave of relief. Being free — and, y’know, not being in imminent danger of asphyxiation — felt so good that I was almost tempted to take a moment to relax and enjoy it. Almost, but not quite. Because that was the moment that my brain finally started working again.

I realised exactly what had just happened to me.

And just how very badly I was fucked.

I felt dizzy all of a sudden, my chest tightening in a way that that had nothing to do with oxygen deprivation. Panic flooded my veins with ice water, but I forced it back through sheer force of will. I couldn’t afford to fall apart right now. I couldn’t afford to be **weak**. So I wouldn’t be.

(I could fall apart later if I needed to. And then I’d pull myself back together again. Just like I always did.)

Okay.

Right.

No point worrying about the metaphorical hole I’d dug for myself. Instead, I finished pulling myself of the rather more literal hole I was in, trying not to get distracted by all the new information streaming into my awareness. Like the fact that ‘silicon dioxide’ was a lie. Well, a grave oversimplification. The way that bond-sharing allowed for a repeating tetrahedral structure… It was elegant. Beautiful, even. As was the way that the cellulose fibres of my cotton T-shirt were made up of chained glucose molecules, themselves formed of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen; simplicity combined into complexity. The bonds holding these wonderful structures together seemed to vibrate in my mind like the strings of a finely-tuned musical instrument. I wondered what would happen if I plucked them…

(And underneath the awed curiosity, there still lurked a queasy mixture of terror and confusion. I still couldn’t quite believe that this had happened at all, let alone that it had happened here and now. It just didn’t make sense. It wasn’t even-)

_No._

This was neither the time nor the place. Speaking of places: where the hell was I? Not out on the beach, apparently, despite the bare sand beneath my feet. No, I was still on the Boardwalk, and it looked like a bomb had gone off. A very localised, very specific, very peculiar kind of bomb. Some kind of weird-ass tinker device that somehow built structures out of the debris it flung around. There were stranger things in heaven and earth, I supposed, but I knew that wasn’t what had happened here. Much as I might have wished otherwise.

I tried not to think about what had actually caused this, focusing instead on the effects. The cafe itself seemed fine, as did most of the tables and benches set out in front of it. One of them, though — the one where I’d been ‘enjoying’ my quiet family lunch — looked like it had been gripped in a giant’s fist, the wood twisted and curved into some kind of impromptu barricade. Something similar had happened to the planks of the Boardwalk itself. The, well, damage, I supposed I should really call it, extended a few feet away from me in all directions. I, of course, was standing pretty much squarely in the middle of the mess, enclosed by my own little palisade. Except the word ‘palisade’ suggested something neat and orderly, and that snarled mass of spikes and splinters was anything but. If I had to express the aesthetic in words, I’d call it something like Dali by way of Giger. It wasn’t pretty. Nor was it especially subtle.

Which brought me to one of the many reasons why I was fucked.

(I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t. I was just… assessing the situation.)

Saturday afternoon on the Boardwalk. The main tourist season might still have been months away, but the place was still pretty damn busy. And all these people had seen… Had witnessed my… They’d seen me turn the place — well, a small part of it, at any rate — into an impromptu art installation. And if I’d had my head on straight, maybe I would have thought about that before climbing out into the open where anyone who had somehow missed me before could get a good fucking eyeful of what I looked like.

I belatedly pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt, hoping it was enough to hide my face. I guessed I just had to hope that the Dali-Giger fence was high enough and dense enough to stop people getting a decent look at me. Or from getting a clear image on their phones. Because of course people were photographing and filming my little display. Why the fuck wouldn’t they be? I tried not to think about the fact that if I could see out, other people could undoubtedly see in. There was nothing I could do about that now, though, so there was absolutely no point in worrying about it. I had other things to worry about right now.

One of them was right over there, leaning a little on the structure that used to be the table as he got slowly to his feet. I was peripherally aware of Lance standing awkwardly around next to him but, honestly, I couldn’t really spare any attention for my brother right now. All of it was focused squarely on Dad, who was now studying my handiwork with a thoughtful expression on his face. I studied him in turn. What was going through his mind as he realised what his daughter was now capable of? Did he-

My train of thought abruptly derailed when he suddenly turned and looked directly at me.

(But I most definitely did not flinch. Not even a little.)

(Certainly not so’s anyone would have noticed.)

Without intending to, I found myself standing up straighter under his regard. It felt like we stood there for a lifetime, just staring at each other, but it couldn’t have been more than a moment or two. And then he… turned away. I was so surprised — barricade or not, I was expecting him to head towards me, not away — that I almost missed the gesture he made.

He wanted me to follow him.

Right. Of course he wouldn’t approach me in the midst of all these looky-loos. No point having people connect him with the cape who just tore up part of the Boardwalk.

(That was me. I was a parahuman now. I had powers.)

(So why the fuck did I still feel so helpless?)

Lance fell in behind him, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd while I just stood there like an idiot, lost in a daze.

Apparently I wasn’t doing such a good job of keeping it together as I’d thought.

I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs, and took a deep breath. Before I could get distracted again, I turned my attention to the wooden barrier surrounding me. I probably could climb it if I had to, although it was awfully pointy in places. But… maybe I didn’t have to climb. I’d made this, after all. Maybe I could also… unmake it? It was certainly worth a try.

Walking over to the structure, I took another deep breath, tried to brace myself mentally, and reached out to touch my creation. As soon as my skin made contact with the wood, awareness unfolded like a knife in my mind. I could sense the chemical composition of the wood, the bonds holding it together. _(Anisotropic, fibrillar structure, largely formed from cellulose and other organic polymers; much more tightly packed than the fibres of my clothing.)_ Now to see if I could actually do anything with that knowledge.

_Here goes nothing._

Given my total lack of any kind of idea how to do this, I just went with what felt right. I was actually kind of surprised when that seemed to work. Well, it seemed to do something, at any rate. The wood began to writhe, the whole structure moving and shifting as I tried to literally bend it to my will. It made the most alarming creaking and groaning sounds, and I couldn’t help a certain amount of trepidation as I encouraged my power to keep on doing what it was doing. Whatever the fuck that was.

I was distantly aware of movement among the watching crowd, some of them doing the sensible thing and putting some distance between themselves and the strange cape. Others… Were their survival instincts broken or something? Irritated, I opened my mouth to tell them to get the fuck back if they knew what was good for them. Before I could say a word though, the barricade abruptly exploded in my face.

Well, no, I realised, a moment later. It hadn’t actually exploded. It had ‘merely’ dissolved into a mass of splinters and sawdust that slowly settled to the ground around me. I didn’t have the first clue why this had happened. Nor did I really have the time to stand around and figure it out. The important thing was that I’d achieved my main objective: the barrier was gone. It hadn’t happened the way I’d wanted — I’d really been hoping that I could fix the damage I’d done, not compound it further — but I was now free to leave. I could go to meet Dad and Lance, like I was supposed to. I’d have to take a bit of a roundabout route to shake off unwanted attention, but there was now nothing standing in my way. All I had to do was take that first step.

So why was I staying exactly where I was?

What the flying fuck was wrong with me?

I **needed** to take that step. And the rest of them. The longer I stayed here, the more danger I was in. Someone from the PRT or the Protectorate could already be on their way. Didn’t they keep an eye out for just this sort of thing? I was pretty sure they did. For that matter, so did the gangs. It was no secret that they were always looking to recruit parahumans who fit their criteria. Either way, I really needed to get going, and the sooner the better. I should have already been on my way. I needed to meet up with Dad and Lance so we could figure out how to deal with this.

I needed to do as I was told.

(Disobedience was always punished.)

I needed to be strong.

(Weakness was always punished.)

I needed to…

My pulse pounded in my ears, my heart thumping as if it was going to leap right out of my chest.

I needed…

My hands were shaking, clenched into fists I didn’t remember making.

I…

My lungs couldn’t seem to get enough air, no matter how much I tried.

I…

_I_ **_can’t_ ** _._

The world spun around me. No, I was the one spinning, wheeling around until I was facing away from the place where my dad and my brother had disappeared into the crowd. I felt sick to my stomach, telling myself that I was being stupid, that I was being weak. That I was only making things worse for myself in the long run. But I could still change my mind. I hadn’t committed myself to this course of action yet. I could still choose… differently.

There was a moment when things could have gone either way; a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity. But then the moment passed.

And I ran like my soul depended on it.

* * * * *

The next few minutes or so were something of a blur. Fleeting impressions of speed and desperation, bodies pressing in on all sides, faces turning towards me with expressions ranging from curious to irritated. Being sworn at by a man with mustard down his shirt as something squished softly underfoot. Tripping over someone’s shopping bags and only narrowly managing to avoid face-planting in the middle of the Boardwalk.

Eventually, though, enough self-awareness filtered back in that I could make myself stagger to a halt and figure out where I was. The good news was that I was nowhere near the site of my little display. The bad news was that I’d gotten here in the stupidest, most attention-getting way possible. Case in point: the curious glances being turned my way right now. And no wonder! People noticed someone blatantly fleeing in panic. It was why the best way to run was often not to look like you were running at all. This was, like, grade school level shit, and I was pretty fucking disgusted with myself right now.

I knew better than this.

I’d been trained better than this.

Shame burned at the back of my throat, a cloying lump I couldn’t swallow down.

I should be stronger than this.

But… I wasn’t, at least not at this moment in time. I was horribly aware that while I seemed to have it together right now, that was all on the surface. I was maybe inches away from freaking out again and I didn’t know if I was going to be able to stop it. If I couldn’t, I really didn’t want to be out in the open when that happened. Plus, I just… I desperately wanted somewhere I could stop and catch my breath without having to worry about looking over my shoulder. I needed space to think.

And… I needed to figure out what I was going to say to my dad when I stopped pissing about and went back home like I was supposed to. Like I should have done in the first place. Because now I was able to think more or less rationally again, I knew it was going to happen. Just…

Just not quite yet.

On that note, I started moving again. This time, however, I made sure to keep to a walking pace. There was a mall not far from here: I could hole up in one of the bathrooms there for a few minutes before heading off to face the music. I just had to break my trail a little first.

Ducking into a side-street, I quickly stripped off my sweater, bundling it up under my arm. It wasn’t quite T-shirt weather, but it wasn’t that cold. Nothing I couldn’t handle, anyway. And there were always enough tourists who couldn’t figure out how to dress appropriately for the season that I wouldn’t even really stand out. I also pulled out my hair tie, letting my hair hang loose around my shoulders. A quick stop in one of the many shops netted me a cheap canvas tote bag into which I stuffed my backpack and sweater. I did my best to imitate the movements of someone who had no particular destination in mind, making sure to cheerfully gawk at the various examples of trinkets, tchotchkes and tat on display, purchasing a couple more items here and there. A scarf and baseball cap with ‘Brockton Bay’ emblazoned across them. A light blue, zip-up hoodie that looked nothing at all like the black sweater stashed in my new bag. A cheap pair of sunglasses.

Of course, the browsing and shopping brought up an unexpected complication of my new, ah, state of awareness. I couldn’t seem to turn it off. Polyester, polyethylene, glass, steel, graphite; if it touched my skin, I could apparently sense its structure on a molecular level. It was both awesome and distracting as all hell. Not to mention potentially dangerous as far as the whole ‘not blowing my cover as a perfectly ordinary fifteen year old girl out shopping’ — fuck, no, sixteen; I was sixteen now — went. Even the most common and ordinary of materials were a source of wonder and fascination and, more and more, I felt the urge to do so much more than merely look.

Needless to say, I resisted the urge.

Maybe I should have invested in a pair of gloves, but I… I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Anyway, I would’ve still been able to sense the gloves themselves, just as I could feel the material of my clothes. Fortunately, my willpower seemed to be up to the challenge.

(Besides, if any spare brainpower was occupied by powers-related information overload, it wasn’t focused on worrying about what was waiting for me at home. So, that was something.)

(A shudder went through the full length of my spine. I ignored it.)

Anyway, distractions aside, by the time I was done I doubted that anyone would connect me to the girl who fled the scene of a parahuman-related incident. Or so I hoped. Was I being paranoid? Quite possibly. But then, like Dad always said, ‘It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.’ And, well, I figured it was better safe than sorry.

My phone buzzed again. I ignored it. Again. This must have been the third time it had gone off since I’d surfaced from my stupid fit of blind panic. I didn’t bother checking the display; I already knew who it was. I also knew I was going to keep on ignoring it until I’d had that chance to catch my breath and recover my mental equilibrium.

As far as I could tell, no one had followed me and no one was paying me any particular attention. Which meant it was probably safe for me to head to the mall.

I just needed to catch my breath, and then I would be ready to go and face the music.

Just a few moments’ peace and quiet, together with at least the illusion of safety.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask?

* * * * *

I had just enough time to feel relieved that the bathroom was otherwise empty, and then the panic came rushing back with a vengeance. God only knew how I managed to hold it together long enough to dash into a cubicle and lock the door. The instant the bolt slammed home, my legs folded beneath me and I crumpled onto the floor. My vision swam, going dark around the edges as I hyperventilated, hunching over and shuddering uncontrollably. I barely had the presence of mind to clap a hand over my mouth to muffle any sounds I might make as all the fear and shame and hatred and self-loathing and anger and pain I’d been just barely containing ripped free of its chains and scoured its way through me.

I was such a fucking coward.

I should have stood up to him. I should have told him to go fuck himself and damn the consequences. I should have had some goddamn self-respect. At the very least, I should have made sure he had to put some actual effort into breaking me. Instead, when it came down to it, all it had taken was words.

Fucking **words**. Not even any of the rest of it.

And now I’d… Now I was… Now I’d fucking triggered. I was a cape. A parahuman. I had powers.

But, ultimately, all that meant was that I was even more royally fucked than I had been. Because there was no way in hell he was going to give up on me now. Which meant…

Shit.

**Shit!**

Now, it was going to be even worse. Now, it wasn’t going to be enough for me to just get my feet wet, metaphorically speaking. Now, I was fucking special. If he had his way, I was going to be in it up to my neck. And if I’d learned anything at all over the years, it was that Dad always got his way. Eventually. Someone up there — or down there, depending — sure as shit must have been having a good fucking belly laugh at my expense.

Hellfire and damnation! What had I even been thinking, running like that? It wasn’t like I had anywhere else to go. And it wasn’t even as if it was some grand gesture of defiance or some shit like that. No, it was just fear, plain and simple.

It was weakness.

And the one thing I couldn’t afford to be was weak.

I dwelled on that thought for a long moment, forcing my breathing to slow and even out. I could get through this. I was a survivor. I could endure a fuck of a lot. And if I broke, I’d just pull myself back together. I’d done it before, and I could do it again. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of strength I wanted — what I wanted was to be unbreakable, untouchable, inviolate — but it was what I had. One way or another, I would get through this. I would survive.

My trembling finally subsided, and I slumped against the cubicle wall, exhausted. Only then did I unclamp my hand from over my mouth. A small twinge went through my lower jaw — apparently I’d clenched my hand just a little too tightly — but it was fine. I doubted there would even be a bruise. I touched my fingers lightly to the skin below my eyes, but of course my face was completely dry. My power had already told me that, but nevertheless I had to verify it the old-fashioned way, even though I couldn’t even remember the last time I had actually shed tears.

Anyway. Enough wallowing.

I got to my feet, closing the toilet lid _(polypropylene; unsurprising given its presence in pretty much all the ‘plastic’ objects I’d touched)_ so I could perch on the edge of it. When I was settled as comfortably as possible — okay, maybe I was procrastinating just a little bit — I pulled out my phone-

_(complex petrochemicals and metals and circuitry and and ow holy fuck who stabbed that ice pick through my eye)_

-and reeled at the shock of pain when I instinctively tried to map out the structure.

Okay.

That was a hell of a thing.

I eyed my phone suspiciously, glad I hadn’t given in to my first instinct to fling it away when my power turned on me. My head throbbed dully, but it wasn’t anything major. Fine; lesson learned. In the future, I would exercise caution when poking at complex electronic devices. I guessed I was just lucky I’d found that out now, under relatively controlled circumstances. Anyway. I could test the limits of my new abilities later. I really couldn’t put off this particular task any longer.

Just as I expected, there were several missed calls from my father. Five in total; apparently I hadn’t noticed a couple of them. There were also three voicemail messages. The first was just a brusque but otherwise business-like order to check in as soon as I could, and to let him know if I was having any problems getting away. In the second, sounding somewhat irritated, he demanded to know what the hold-up was. The third… Well. He wasn’t pleased with me, that was clear.

Maybe I should call and let him know I was on my way.

Or maybe I would sit here just a few moments longer, fighting not to let despair consume me. I shoved my phone in my pocket with a brusque, determined gesture. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

After all, I was already in trouble. What possible difference could a few moments more make?

That, naturally, was when someone knocked on the bathroom door.

* * * * *

I almost jumped right out of my skin.

Immediately afterwards, I forced my body to absolute stillness, not daring to move a muscle, trying not to make even the smallest sound. A tense, silent couple of seconds went by, and then whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again. This time, however, the door creaked open.

“Hello?” A man’s voice, or maybe a boy’s. Youngish; maybe my age, maybe a little bit older. Not a voice I recognised. I didn’t answer. Maybe whoever it was would just go away if he didn’t get a response. Like I was ever going to be that lucky. Instead of leaving, he actually came into the bathroom, letting the door close behind him. Only one set of footsteps, as far as I could tell. “I know you’re in there.” It sounded like he was smiling. I silently cursed the fact I hadn’t thought to pull my feet up so they weren’t visible beneath the cubicle door. “You’re not in any trouble,” he continued, his tone gentle and nonthreatening. “I just want to talk.”

_Yeah, right._

Still, there was no particular point in staying silent any longer, so I swallowed against the lump in my throat and said, “I think you’re in the wrong place.” I didn’t sound as confident as I’d hoped, but at least my voice didn’t quaver or crack embarrassingly. That was something, I supposed.

“I don’t think I am,” he said. I listened carefully for any sign that he might be moving closer, but couldn’t hear anything obvious.

“This is the ladies’ room,” I said, like he didn’t already know that. Like he hadn’t come here looking specifically for me. God-fucking-dammit! I really thought I’d managed to break my trail.

Maybe I just hadn’t been paranoid enough.

“I’m aware,” he said, somewhat ruefully. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be in here if I had a choice.”

“You could always leave.”Like I held out any hope whatsoever that this was actually an option.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I had to give kudos to the guy; he actually managed to sound genuinely regretful. He was obviously a very skilled liar. Before I could think of a suitable retort, however, he continued speaking. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Gallant of the Brockton Bay Wards. What should I call you?”

Well, shit.

Dad was going to fucking kill me. Or at least make me wish I was dead. Of all the bastard rotten luck! Why oh why hadn’t I just made my way back home right away like I was supposed to?

This was all my stupid fault.

Belatedly, I recalled that Gallant had asked me a question.

“Astrid,” I replied numbly, still mentally reeling, and clenched my jaw to stop myself from swearing out loud in disgust. Why the fuck did I give him my real name? _Rookie mistake, dumb-ass._ I must have been more rattled than I’d thought. I was just glad I’d managed not to blurt out my surname as well.

“It’s nice to meet you, Astrid. I’m sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances.”

“What do you know about it?” The question burst out of me before I could think better of it, my words harsh and angry.

“Well, I know some of what happened on the Boardwalk. And I know that you must be having a difficult time right now.” _Understatement of the fucking year,_ I thought bitterly. “Like I said before, though, you’re not in any trouble. I just want to talk to you.” Somehow, he managed to sound wryly amused as he added, “Preferably somewhere other than a ladies’ bathroom.”

I considered my options.It didn’t take long.

“Fine,” I said, trying not to sound as apprehensive as I felt. “I’d like to tidy myself up a bit first, though.”

“I’ll wait outside.” He’d clearly taken my not-so-subtle hint.

I waited until I was sure he was gone before cautiously unlocking the cubicle door and peeking out. I didn’t see any obvious cameras or other devices, but then I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to. As a Ward, he’d have access to tinker tech stuff. Hell, even non-tinker tech surveillance gear could easily be concealed. If he really wanted to know what I looked like, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Fretting about it, therefore, was pointless. Not that it stopped me doing so, but at least I’d try not to let it distract me too much.

Alright, I probably didn’t have much time before he’d come back in to check on me. I didn’t remember seeing any other exits, but I looked anyway. Unfortunately, my first impression was right. There wasn’t even so much as a window, let alone another door. Plus, unlike in the movies, there was no way in hell I was going to be able to squeeze through a ventilation duct.

Goddamn it.

Wait. Was it possible to…? Could I… make myself an exit? Use my power on the wall, maybe? A little hesitantly, I rested my fingertips against one of the tiles, bracing myself as best as I could against the expected expansion of my awareness.

It didn’t help at all.

This wasn’t like sand, or wood, or my clothes, or any of the simple objects I’d handled on my way here. It was more like the phone. Maybe not as quite as complex, but more… Just more. And actively concentrating on it felt a bit like trying to focus a microscope and a telescope at the same time. Not that I’d ever done that, but it was the only comparison that came to mind as I reeled from the onslaught. It wasn’t just the bonds holding together the stuff it was built from on a molecular level. It was also the… the macrostructure; the overall shape of… of the whole building? Was that was I was sensing?

Whatever it was, I couldn’t make sense of it; couldn’t even hold it steady in my mind. It was just too much. It…

I…

I was going to throw up.

I bolted for a cubicle, at the last moment thinking to bash the door open with my clothed elbow, rather than the bare skin of my hand. Another blast of that was the absolute last thing I needed right now. I only just had the presence of mind to drag my hair back off my face as I bent over the toilet.

This day just kept getting better and fucking better.

In the end, I only retched miserably a few times, bringing up nothing but spittle. I supposed I hadn’t really eaten much of anything today. What with one thing and another, I hadn’t had much of an appetite. Right at this moment in time, I was actually pretty glad about that.

“Are you alright in there?” Gallant sounded concerned. Or at least a good imitation of it. No, it was probably genuine: after all, it was hardly going to look good for him if a potential recruit dropped dead before he even had a proper conversation with her.

Maybe I was being unfair.

“I’m fine,” I managed, not sounding at all convincing to my own ears. “I’ll be out shortly.”

“Well, I’m right out here if you need anything.” His tone was reassuring; friendly, even. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help reading his words as a threat. I didn’t bother to reply.

Carefully, I straightened up, somewhat relieved that the lingering feelings of nausea seemed content to hover around the level of mere discomfort. My head, on the other hand, was pounding like a drum, and little blotches of colour fuzzed my vision. The light seemed to stab into my eyes like needles. I’d only had one or two migraines in my life, but that was exactly what this felt like. Great. Just great. Still, it was only pain. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

I pulled my sweater sleeve down over my hand to flush the toilet and, subsequently, to nudge the tap on. I didn’t know if touching those would end up inducing another BSOD, but I didn’t want to take the risk. That wouldn’t, however, help me with the next part. I eyed the stream of water with some trepidation as I pushed my sleeve back up again. Gingerly — and feeling only a little bit ridiculous — I poked the water with the tip of one finger.

The result was almost anticlimactic.

I could sense the water, sort of, but it was… fuzzy. Out of focus. Because it was a liquid? That… wasn’t entirely a bad thing. It meant that showers weren’t going to become a special kind of torment, at least. More relevant to my current situation, I could now wash my hands and face without collapsing in a twitching heap. I rinsed my mouth out too, making an unexpected discovery in the process.

_Huh._

Well, eating was certainly going to be different from now on.

I pushed the thought aside as I did what I could to disguise my appearance. Hat down low, hood up with my hair — now pulled back into its usual ponytail — tucked carefully inside. Scarf around my lower face. Sunglasses on. Yeah, it wasn’t particularly subtle, but it wasn’t meant to be. It wasn’t just about hiding my face from Gallant, although that was part of it. It was also about all the people that would be paying attention to him, and anyone accompanying him. I was sure he’d understand. And if he didn’t, tough shit. It wasn’t like he could force me to unmask in public. Well, technically he could, but it didn’t really make sense that he would. Or so I hoped. Anyway, the sunglasses actually seemed to help my throbbing eyeballs.

After a moment’s thought, I pulled my sleeves down over my hands, glad that my new sweater was a size too big for me. The last thing I wanted was to accidentally touch something complicated and give myself an aneurysm. I was just relieved that contact with my clothing wasn’t too much for me to handle. I was aware of it, sure, but it wasn’t overwhelming.

Right. Well. I was as ready as I would ever be.

_Time to get this show on the road._

(I just hoped I didn’t fuck things up too badly.)


	2. Claustrophobia 1.02

Unless Brockton Bay was hosting some power armour aficionado convention I didn’t know about, Gallant — appropriately true to his word — was waiting for me just outside the door. He was actually in the middle of posing for a picture with some passers by. There was a brief moment when I thought I might be able to slip away… But then he looked over at me, and I knew I’d missed my opportunity. Murmuring something to his adoring fans, he walked the few steps towards me, a pleasant smile on his face.

(Not for the first time, I wondered why so few of the Protectorate and Wards heroes seemed to bother with full face coverings. Most of the ones I could think of off the top of my head tended to have either their eyes or mouth exposed. It seemed a little stupid to me, but then what did I know? I wasn’t a hero.)

I tensed a little at his approach, surprised when he halted far enough away that he couldn’t just grab me if I actually tried to bolt. On the other hand, the distance meant I couldn’t reach him either. Given that he likely didn’t know exactly what I could do — hell, I was still figuring that out for myself — that was probably wise. I couldn’t help wondering what his armour would feel like to my new senses. Fortunately, my survival instinct was sufficiently well-developed that I wasn’t even tempted to try to indulge my curiosity. Well, not much.

“Hello,” Gallant said, and I had to admire the skill it took for a person to somehow contrive to adopt a nonthreatening air while wearing (tinker tech? Probably tinker tech) power armour. And while possessing superpowers. I mean, I was feeling threatened as all get out. See above re: power armour and superpowers. But still. It was an impressive feat nonetheless. “It’s nice to be able to talk to you without a door in the way.”

“Hi,” I said, choosing not to comment on the second part. I tried not to make it obvious that I was searching for his backup. Everyone knew that Wards usually patrolled in pairs. “What do you want to talk about?”

As if I didn’t know perfectly well what the topic of conversation would be. I knew he wasn’t fooled, though. If I truly had nothing to hide, I wouldn’t have bothered concealing my face.

He glanced around at the crowds of Saturday afternoon shoppers, seemingly unfazed by my own, distinctly less open demeanour. “Perhaps we should go somewhere else?”

I considered for a moment. On the one hand, fewer witnesses if he decided to drop the nice guy act and bring me in forcibly. On the other hand, fewer witnesses if I had to do anything… precipitous. ‘Choose the terrain,’ my father had always drilled into me. If Gallant was willing to cede that advantage to me, then I would happily take it.

“There’s a park near here. Should be less crowded.” Plus, it had multiple exits and there was at least some cover if I did have to make a break for it. While a crowd of people was its own kind of cover — and in some ways better than trees and shrubs — I, like Gallant, didn’t particularly want our conversation to be overheard.

“Lead the way.”

I nodded, but made sure to keep him in view as we set about threading our way through the mall. Even so, I could feel the phantom itch of the bead I was sure he was drawing on me. If Gallant noticed that I didn’t take the most direct route to the exit, he didn’t say anything about it. Maybe he just wanted to see what my intentions were.

Maybe he was just giving me enough rope to hang myself.

Maybe he was waiting for me to give him an excuse to hurt me.

Tempting though it was simply to try to lose myself in the crowd, I knew that wasn’t my best move right now. Maybe if I’d managed it as soon as I exited the bathroom… But no. I had to be smart. I didn’t know how he’d found me; how he was sure that I was the person he was looking for. If I just made a break for it, there was no guarantee that he couldn’t just track me down again. Better just to play along for the moment and focus on trying to talk my way out of trouble. Somehow.

I’d already blown the first rule: I’d already gotten noticed.

And I was just overflowing with natural charisma, with **such** an aptitude for smooth-talking.

_Ha-fucking-ha._

Anyway, the meandering path gave me a better shot at spotting anyone else who might be following. Not that I’d noticed any obvious tails, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. After all, I hadn’t noticed anything earlier.

Just in case the situation did go tits up: what did I know about Gallant?

He was a blaster, firing lasers that carried kinetic force and could alter people’s emotions. Which, if you asked me, was really kind of horrifying if you thought about it for more than a second. The emotion-altering part, not the lasers. Not much of a hand to hand fighter, apparently, but with the armour he didn’t necessarily have to be. Could I do something about the armour? Maybe, but if a cellphone and a building caused a migraine like this, I dreaded to think what something as complicated as tinker tech power armour would do to me. Crippling myself was emphatically not a valid option. And if I couldn’t do anything about the armour… Basically, it would be better for me if this little encounter didn’t end in violence. I just hoped that my pitiful social skills were up to the task.

(Gallant had said I wasn’t in trouble, though. He’d said it twice, in fact. But that couldn’t possibly be right. I’d destroyed part of the Boardwalk. Only a small part, it was true, but I couldn’t imagine his superiors looking kindly on random acts of property damage. Even worse, what if people had been hurt? I thought back to my ‘audience’. Had any of them been sporting any visible injuries? I couldn’t remember.)

(I hoped I hadn’t hurt anyone.)

When we eventually stepped out into the open air, the late afternoon sunlight was like a knife stabbing directly into my brain. I tried to conceal my reaction, but I must have reeled, or made a sound, or given some other sign of distress, because Gallant was suddenly right there at my elbow and I only just managed to stop myself from hitting him.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, stepping away with his hands raised slightly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”

I had to give him this much: he did a sterling job of seeming genuinely concerned about my wellbeing.

“I’m fine,” I managed, trying not to sound like I was forcing the words out through gritted teeth. Despite wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball and hide my head until the evil daystar went away, I made myself stand up straight and meet his gaze. Well, the blank surface of his visor, at any rate. From the way his lips tightened, I guessed he was… less than convinced. I sighed internally. “Migraine,” I added. “Nothing serious.”

He tilted his head a little. “Do you suffer from those often?”

“No.” I really hoped he’d take the hint and stop this particular line of questioning before it really got started. Because talking about the migraine meant talking about what caused it, and the last thing I wanted to do right now was to field questions about my powers.

_Fuck me. I have powers now._

“I… guess that means the sunglasses weren’t just for my benefit.”

The unexpectedly dry observation actually startled a laugh out of me. The migraine didn’t appreciate that in the slightest, but it made me feel a little better nonetheless.

“Hadn’t you heard?” I matched his tone, a slight smile on my own lips, even though he couldn’t see it. “Sunglasses indoors are the new black. All the cool kids are wearing them.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Now.” His tone grew more serious. “Is there anything I can get for you? Some water, perhaps? Tylenol? Do you need to sit down?”

“Water would be great.” Actually, it sounded heavenly right about now. I hadn’t realised how dry my throat was until he mentioned it. “But I can get it myself.”

“Please, let me,” he said. His voice taking on an almost conspiratorial note, he continued, “After all, I am trying to get on your good side. I figure I’m already at a sizeable disadvantage from the way I accosted you in the bathroom. I really need to make up some ground here. So, help a guy out?”

Surprised, I found myself laughing again. “Well, when you put it that way, I guess you need all the brownie points you can get. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He had a nice smile, I tried not to think. “I’ll be right back.”

I half-heartedly thought about making a break for it while Gallant was busy living up to his name but, much as it pained me to admit it, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go more than a few steps without falling over right now. Not that I would ordinarily let that stop me, but I still had no idea how he’d tracked me down the first time. Plus, I was directly in his line of sight and he wasn’t exactly far away. Better to bide my time until I’d figured out how to push through this… weakness.

_Fucking migraines._

I really hoped this wasn’t going to happen every time I used my power. Anyway, there was still the option of talking my way out of this. Plus, loath as I was to admit it, there was a small part of me that was actually kind of interested in hearing what he had to say.

No. It was dangerous to think that way. I had to be on my guard. He was a problem, an obstacle, a threat, and the moment I let myself forget that, I put everything in jeopardy. It was just… It would have been easier to quell my curiosity if I didn’t kind of want to like the guy.

God, how long had it been since I’d actually laughed? Just… shared a moment of humour and camaraderie with another human being? (How long was it since I’d realised that friends were a luxury I couldn’t afford? That anything and anyone I cared about might have to be dropped; left behind at a moment’s notice?) How fucking sad was it that the nearest I got to pleasant social contact was with the Ward sent to bring me in after I… After things went even more to shit.

Dammit!

Why did he have to have a fucking sense of humour?

“Here you go.”

Shit!

My elbow slammed into something solid, sending a spike of actual, blessed, **ordinary** pain through my arm. It even helped to clear my head a little.

**_Fuck!_ **

How had he managed to get so close without me noticing? Disgust at my lapse burned in my gut. Or maybe that was just the nausea reminding me it was still there.

_Good job staying alert, idiot._

“Sorry,” I muttered, willing my heart to stop racing.

“I should be the one apologising,” he said unexpectedly, shifting back a step. “I’ll just stay where you can see me, shall I?”

“I’d appreciate it. Thanks.”

Well, I was sure as shit doing a sterling job of not rousing any suspicions. Great work, me!

“Here,” he said, holding out a bottle of water. “You should probably have this.”

“Thank you.” I cautiously accepted the bottle, and then cursed silently as it started to slip from my grasp. I managed to catch it just in time, but this clearly wasn’t going to work. With a bit of awkward juggling — and a certain amount of apprehension — I managed to push up my sleeves up enough to grip the bottle with my bare hands. The structure of the plastic _(polyethylene terephthalate; carbon, hydrogen and oxygen)_ bloomed in my mind, accompanied by a brief flare of pain in my head and eyes, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I had feared. I could handle this. Reassured (and reassured that the bottle’s seal was still intact, and that there were no unexpected holes in the cap), I twisted off the lid and…

Okay, this was going to be awkward. Turning away a little, I managed to shuffle the scarf around until I could take a drink without either baring my face to the world or tipping half of the liquid down myself.

“Yeah, that’s the thing they don’t tell you about masks,” Gallant said, sounding somehow more like he was commiserating with me than laughing at my discomfiture. “Some of them can make eating and drinking a bit of a hassle. Or, as one of my less-fortunate colleagues would put it, ‘a right royal pain in the ass’.”

I was pretty sure he was talking about Clockblocker. He was supposed to be the wiseass of the group. And, well, he’d chosen the name ‘Clockblocker.’

“Thanks for the heads up, **hero** ,” I drawled sarcastically, but I was more amused than annoyed.

“I live to serve,” he said, earnestly. Or sarcastically. I… honestly wasn’t sure. I strongly suspected the latter, though.

I gave him a suspicious look, but then turned my attention to something much more important: taking a slow sip of blessed, blessed water. Just as before, my power worked on the liquid in my mouth. It was… certainly an experience. I was, however, extremely glad that my awareness of the water’s chemical composition ceased as soon as I swallowed it. I didn’t even want to think about what it would be like if it hadn’t.

I drank about half the water, then put the cap back on the bottle and shoved it in my bag. It occurred to me that at least I could be reasonably sure that Gallant hadn’t planted a tracker or a bug or anything of that ilk on the bottle. Heh. Well, unless it was some tinker tech bullshit intangible bug, or whatever. But that would require them to have already come up with a counter to my power, and thoughts like that led to a rabbit hole of paranoia that I had no intention of falling down. There was ‘reasonable caution’ and then there was full on ‘tinfoil hat brigade’. I liked to think I was closer to the former than the latter.

I turned to Gallant, who had waited patiently while I slowly and carefully sipped my water. I kind of appreciated that he hadn’t felt the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter. ( _No, Astrid. Bad! Stop humanising the current roadblock to your freedom._ He had an agenda and, more importantly, he had superiors. No matter how he tried to make it seem, this wasn’t just a friendly chat.)

“Shall we keep going?”

“You’re sure you don’t want to rest a little more first?” he asked. “There’s a bench right over there, and we’re not exactly in a rush.”

Well, maybe he wasn’t. Some of us, however, were rather more concerned with how long this was taking. As if to underscore the point, my phone buzzed again. I reached for it reflexively, just remembering to wrap my hand in my sleeve before I actually touched the thing. It was Dad. Again. Christ, he must have been going totally spare. Without really making a conscious decision, I shoved my phone back into my pocket and started walking.

“I don’t need to rest,” I said, assuming Gallant would follow me. “And I’m feeling quite a bit better for the water.” Not actually a lie, just… a slight exaggeration of the truth. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said.

A few minutes passed in silence, Gallant easily keeping pace with me. Much to my surprise, he actually did try to stay in my sightline. Even with the floaters in my vision. (I decided that I really hated migraines.) It helped a little, but I couldn’t help waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn’t really think he’d do anything with so many people around but, well, better safe than knocked unconscious and shoved in the back of a PRT van.

Hmm. Maybe I was closer to the tinfoil hat brigade end of the paranoia scale than I’d thought. Maybe. However, my wariness didn’t exactly decrease as we stepped off the main shopping drag and the crowds grew noticeably thinner.

As we approached the entrance to the park, I noticed Gallant turning his head the way and that, scanning the surroundings. I did the same, but didn’t spot anything that might have put him on guard. However, as he immediately followed that up by clearing his throat, he was probably just making sure that we could speak without being heard. Unfortunately, I missed what he said next as I’d — perhaps foolishly — indulged an impulse to trail my fingers over the wrought iron gates that marked the entrance to the park. It was… _(Iron, but not only iron. Trace amounts of carbon, fibrous inclusions formed of a mixture of iron oxide and silicon dioxide. But more than its composition, I could feel its_ ** _potential_** _and…)_ Wow. I was distantly aware that my head didn’t necessarily like me very much right now, but I didn’t really care. The metal was so clear, so responsive to my power; more so than almost anything I’d touched so far. I had the distinct feeling that I could really do something with this.

Except… This really wasn’t the time for fucking around.

Shit.

I realised that I’d stopped dead in my tracks, my hand resting on the metal (so malleable!), lost in my own little world.

Shit!

I let go of the gate, looking over at Gallant like I hadn’t just spaced out right in front of him. My head was throbbing even more, but I could cope. It was my own stupid fault, anyway.

“Shall we go on in?”

He regarded me for a moment, and then nodded. “Sure.”

We fell into step. I was almost surprised when he didn’t ask me what had happened. Maybe he already knew.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch what you said before.” I shrugged, feeling my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. “I… guess I got a little distracted, sorry.”

“It happens,” he said easily, seemingly unfazed. His mouth twisted in a wry grin. “Don’t worry, my ego is pretty robust. I can cope with being ignored.” I was starting to think that Clockblocker wasn’t the wiseass on their team, or at least not the only one. “But what I said was that I’ve been told that parahumans with thinker powers can get headaches if they strain themselves.”

Thinker powers? Was that what I had? I guessed so, at least in part. I thought about asking the obvious question, but hesitated. Would asking give too much away about my own powers? But then, if he was already talking about thinker powers, he must have at least suspected that much. Merely having that confirmed wasn’t going to tell him any of the details.

“Does it get better?” I asked, wishing I sounded a little more confident. “With practice, I mean.”

“I’m told it does,” he said. “I’m also told that coffee can help ease the resulting migraines.” He shrugged. “Or, maybe the person who told me that is just weird. Who knows?”

Maybe I’d get a coffee when we were done here. Assuming I actually got to walk away. And, just like that, I was back to being apprehensive. (When had I even stopped?)

“Anyway,” I said, glancing over at him. “I think this is about as private as it’s going to get.” I took a deep breath. “What did you want to say to me?”

“First of all, I wanted to see how you’re doing. I don’t pretend to know exactly what you’re going through, but I know it can’t be easy.”

“I’m fine,” I said flatly. “The migraine sucks, but I’ll live.”

“Good,” he said easily, apparently taking my none-too-subtle hint. “I’m glad to hear it. Mainly, though, I just wanted to tell you this: you have options. I know it may not feel like it, but you do. You don’t have to let anyone force you into doing anything you don’t want to do. And you’re not alone. If you ever want to talk about options, or anything else, now or later, I’ll be available.”

He pulled out something from a pouch on his belt and held it out to me. I cautiously accepted the rectangular square of cardboard. _(Mostly cellulose, plus trace amounts of various intriguing hydrocarbons and metals that I was pretty sure was the ink.)_ It was… a business card? It had his cape name on, obviously, but there was a phone number and e-mail address there.

I blinked at him, a little nonplussed.

“I thought you were going to try to recruit me into the Wards.”

He shrugged. (I was a little impressed that was possible in full power armour.) “When I said you shouldn’t let anyone force you into anything, I was including myself in that. I’m obligated to recommend that you join the Wards but, ultimately, it’s your decision. And it’s not one you need to make right now this second. In fact…” He gave a slightly lopsided smile. “This probably isn’t actually the best time to make potentially life-changing choices. I completely understand if you just want to think things over for a while; maybe try to figure out what **you** want before other people start telling you what’s best. And, like I said, I’m here if you want to talk. Now or another time.”

I… was not expecting that. Not any of it. Could it really be that simple? Somehow I doubted it.

(But I kind of wished it was.)

I tucked the card away in my pocket and stared at him, trying to think of something to say. A question came to mind.

“There is something I was wondering,” I said, hating the tremulous note in my voice.

“Oh?”

“Do you know…?” I hesitated, and then tried again. “On the Boardwalk, where I… Where it happened. Was anyone… Did I hurt anyone?”

“Not as far as I know,” he said, reassuringly. To my surprise, he gave me a small smile. “I think you might have made a few tourists’ days, though.”

“Oh.” A tension I hadn’t even realised was there eased a little at his words. “Good.” I felt my phone buzz again. But it stopped right away. A text message?

“Excuse me a moment,” I muttered. “I have to get this.”

“Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”

Getting my phone out was a little awkward, but I really didn’t want to touch if I could help it. Not right now. I was completely unsurprised to see that the message was from Dad. It was a simple message, merely consisting of a location, followed by, ‘Be there in five minutes.’

The ‘or else’ was unwritten, but I knew it was there anyway.

_Shit. Shitshitshit. Hellfire and damnation!_

Could I even get there in time? I really wasn’t sure. If I left right now… Maybe?

“Is something wrong?” Gallant asked. He sounded concerned.

Yes. Yes, there was.

“No,” I lied. “I just… I need to be somewhere. I have to… I’m supposed to meet my Dad. I’m running late.”

Shit. He must be so angry with me already. And if I missed the rendezvous…

From the way Gallant’s lips pressed together, I guessed that he was frowning. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No!” Oh God. I couldn’t even begin to articulate how much I absolutely did not want that. “I mean, no thank you. It’s fine. But I really have to go. Thanks for the water, and for the, uh, talk. And your card.”

I was already backing away. Would he try to stop me? I hoped not.

I really, really needed to make that meeting.

Really.

I could feel my throat tightening just thinking about…

I really needed to make it.

“You’re welcome,” Gallant said, still frowning. “Just… remember what I said, okay? If you need to talk, or if you need help, or anything, give me a call. Okay?”

“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say that I would. I took a deep breath, tried to brace myself as best as I could for how much this was going to hurt. “Goodbye.”

I turned and ran as fast as I could.

The world swam around me as the migraine suddenly spiked, but I pushed through it. I really needed to make it on time.

I knew I shouldn’t run. I knew I risked drawing attention. I knew I should be smart about this, but I…

A few streets away from the park I remembered to pull off the scarf. Everything else was fine, but a scarf around my face would definitely draw attention. Still running, I tried to shove the garment into my bag. I had no idea if it made it in there, or just fluttered free in the breeze. I didn’t particularly care. Was there anything else I needed to deal with? I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. The most important thing right now was that I absolutely could not be late.

I couldn’t. Not on top of everything else.

All in all, the journey could best be described as hellish. By the time I got to the rendezvous point, I was more or less blind in one eye, my head felt like someone was jabbing it with red hot pokers, and the only thing keeping me upright was sheer, desperate stubbornness.

And despite all that, despite how hard I’d tried, despite how much it hurt, I still didn’t make it on time.

It probably took me closer to ten minutes than five. I did get another message while en route, but I just couldn’t spare the time to check it. Anyway, I wasn’t sure I’d even have been able to read it. I’d just tried to run faster. Not that it had been fast enough.

Shit.

I’d have to try to read the message. Maybe there would be further instructions or something. Maybe-

_Wait._ Even to my currently fuzzy vision, the man over there looked familiar. (A shiver went down my spine, cold spreading outwards to prick my skin with goose-pimples.) I took a slow, deep breath, steeled myself and wandered over. Dad was pretending to browse through a rack of shoes on display outside a shop, all his attention seemingly fixed upon the bargain footwear. I knew better, of course. Sure enough, as I drew near, he turned to look right at me.

His eyes were as cold as ice.


	3. Claustrophobia 1.03

Dad regarded me for a long, tense moment. I automatically snapped to attention, trying to get my breathing under control as the world spun drunkenly around me. After what felt like a lifetime, he finally spoke.

“You’re late.” His tone was mild, maybe even light, but I still had to suppress a shiver.

“Sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.” I was a little relieved that I managed to keep my voice even and steady.

He didn’t reply, instead flicking a quick, warning glance at the people still milling around, drifting in and out of shops and generally doing what people did late on a Saturday afternoon in one of the town’s main shopping districts. None of them were particularly within earshot, but this was still a conversation probably best suited to another venue. I hoped none of the bystanders had paid too much attention to my headlong flight into the area. Were they directing curious glances my way? Or were they merely gawking tourists? I knew it was too much to hope that my mistakes had escaped Dad’s notice.

He started walking, gesturing for me to follow him. I was glad beyond all measure that he set a relatively easy pace. I really wasn’t sure I could have managed anything faster. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I could really manage this, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. What was I going to do, ask him to slow down because I was feeling ‘a little peaky’? Because showing further weakness would make this whole sorry shitshow go so much better. Anyway, I still had my pride.

Ignoring me for the moment, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text message, probably to Lance. I tensed a little when he put his phone back in his pocket, but he seemed content to let the silence linger a while longer. I almost fancied I could feel it settle around us like a shroud (or a noose) as I tried uselessly not to fret. A few minutes went by before he spoke again, startling me out of my thoughts.

“Where were you?” Again, he spoke almost carelessly, like we were just discussing the weather.

There was a fleeting temptation to lie outright, to claim I’d at least been heading in the right direction, doing as I was told, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Outside of certain highly specific circumstances, I was never any good at lying to him. Trying would make it so much worse for me if — when — he found out.

“When I received your message, I was in Campbell Park, Sir.”

A handful of heartbeats sped by. Dad didn’t look at me as he said, “Even allowing for reasonable diversions, Campbell Park is not on the way home from our previous location.”

Hellfire and damnation.

I’d have been surprised if he hadn’t picked up on that, of course, but still.

Shit.

At least he hadn’t asked what I was doing there. It was undoubtedly just a matter of time until he did, but there was no point in borrowing trouble from the future. I had a sinking feeling I already had more than enough of that particular commodity right here in the present. He did seem to be expecting a reply to his observation, though…

I played it safe, responding with a simple, “No, Sir.”

“You didn’t answer your phone. Nor did you attempt to contact me to inform me of any… problems that would have prevented you from obeying orders.”

Oh, I really was well and truly fucked.

“No, Sir,” I said, again. I didn’t argue, or attempt to explain myself. If he wanted to know my reasons, he would ask me. Volunteering information might have been seen as attempting to make excuses, and excuses were simply not tolerated. There was no excuse for failure.

And failure was always punished.

“What have I taught you about maintaining lines of communication in the field?”

“That communication is a crucial part of operational effectiveness, and that accurate, up to date intel can mean the difference between success and failure.”

I only barely hesitated there, but it was long enough for him to turn and fix me with a diamond-hard stare.

“And?”

“That it is a soldier’s responsibility to communicate any and all relevant information to their commanding officer as soon as feasibly possible, Sir.”

“Such as your status and location after failing to re-establish contact. As ordered.”

(So. Very. Fucked.)

“Yes, Sir,” was all I could think of to say.

(I tried to tell myself I wasn’t afraid; that the pounding of my pulse in my ears was just the migraine, nothing more.)

(I wasn’t overly convincing.)

Dad proceeded to ignore me for a few more minutes, letting me stew in my own juices. I recognised the tactic; knew better than to hope that his silence meant the discussion was over. If experience had taught me anything, he was barely getting started.

We’d reached the slightly less rarefied end of the Boardwalk by this point, taking a meandering route towards the docks, and home. I tried not to think about what would be waiting for me when we got there.

“You could have been hurt,” he said, apropos of nothing. “Or, worse, captured. I had no way of knowing your status. When you failed to check-in, I was forced to assume a worst case scenario. If you hadn’t deigned to turn up when you did, I would’ve had to track you down, putting all of us at risk and potentially setting the mission back fucking **years**.”

I flinched inside at the vitriolic fury underscoring his words, growing more and more intense the longer he spoke. The fact that he wasn’t even raising his voice somehow made it so much worse. I had only rarely seen him this angry, and the occasions where it had been directed at me…

My throat felt tight and sore, like there just wasn’t enough air around here. I swallowed surreptitiously, trying to convince myself that there was nothing obstructing my airways; that it was perfectly fine. Well, no. Not fine, obviously. Nothing about this whole goddamn situation was fine. But I tried to convince myself that I could still breathe, at least.

I was more or less successful.

“You know what’s at stake here,” Dad continued, enunciating each word very, very clearly, like he wanted to make absolutely certain that there was no possibility of misunderstanding. “I know you know, because I damn well made sure of it.” He paused expectantly, but I just stared at him, unsure what he wanted me to say. His eyes narrowed, his voice low and dangerous as he asked, “Well?”

Fuck. I really wished I could think straight right now. I really, really didn’t want to guess wrong and piss him off even more. But remaining silent wouldn’t help either. I considered a moment, and then chose my response.

“Yes, Sir. I know what’s at stake.”

He gave a slow nod, and I sagged minutely — and hopefully unnoticeably — in relief.

“And you also know that our mission depends on staying under the radar until we’re ready to make our move.”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied slowly, a little more confident this time that it was what he wanted, even if I wasn’t entirely certain where he was going with this line of conversation. (Oh, I knew the general destination, of course. I just wasn’t sure precisely how he was going to get there from here.)

He didn’t continue right away, his gaze flicking around as he angled us towards an alleyway. The crowds had thinned out considerably as we reached the kind of shops that only aspired to being on the Boardwalk. They’d grow again as we got nearer to our destination, but that was a considerably different kind of crowd. Here, though, it was kind of a no man’s land, the few people dotted around here and there generally on their way somewhere else. Not really much here to draw the shoppers and entertainment seekers, but not quite lawless enough for less legal kinds of entertainment to flourish. With a sinking heart, I realised there was a good chance the alleyway was completely deserted. And with the way it dog-legged, part of it wasn’t visible from the streets on either side.

Shit.

This wasn’t good.

I felt sick to my stomach. I was so tense, I started to physically ache with the strain of it. Or maybe that was just another wonderful side effect of the migraine. (I guessed it really was the gift that kept on giving. Fucking migraines.) If Dad wanted to make sure he had my attention, he’d succeeded in spades. I was hyper-focused on him, alert to every little movement he made.

None of which focus did me a damned bit of good when he abruptly spun around and slammed me up against the wall.

(No one as big and solid and strong as him should be able to move so fast or so quietly. It just wasn’t right. It just wasn’t fair.)

My shoulders hit the bricks hard enough to rattle my bones, fireworks exploding across my vision in little starbursts of agony. I tensed in anticipation of a blow, but all he did was hold me there, his hands on my shoulders pinning me in place. He leaned in close as I tried to catch my breath, his voice a low, angry growl.

“Then explain to me why the fuck you decided to risk **everything** with that little stunt of yours.”

Wait. Was he blaming me for…? When he…? But… But…

_How fucking dare he?!_

Anger burned white-hot inside me, hot enough that I forgot to feel afraid, forgot to worry about how I was going to be punished for my disobedience and my weakness and my failure. It even seemed to cut right through the migraine, giving the scene a knife-edged clarity as I pulled the sunglasses off my face so I could match him glare for glare.

“Are you seriously blaming me for fucking triggering?” My voice had a harsh, accusatory edge I didn’t even recognise. I just didn’t speak that way, not to him. But, right at this moment in time? I just didn’t care. “You think I chose that? That I decided to make a big fucking scene in the middle of the Boardwalk to… What? To spite you?”

(A small, distant part of me felt a certain wry amusement at the fact that even in the grip of temper, I was careful not to raise my voice. Wouldn’t want to draw attention, after all. Mustn’t jeopardise the goddamn mission.)

(Not my mission. Not my fucking cause. I never asked for any of this, never wanted to be his goddamn soldier. I was just never given a choice.)

(A simmering resentment I couldn’t let myself acknowledge burned like acid in my veins)

Dad’s lips thinned, his eyes glinting coldly as he tightened his grip on my shoulders; fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. I tried to break free, but it was useless. Anger and resentment and stark, unreasoning terror and, yes, jagged-edged hatred, bubbled up inside me until I just wanted to **scream**.

He was just too damn strong. And I… I was too weak.

Helpless.

Trapped.

No good choices. No way out. No hope.

Just like before.

Just before I…

I…

No.

Not like before.

Because now I had options.

I wriggled the fingers of one hand free of my sleeve and pressed my bare skin against the wall behind me. Awareness lit up my mind like a magnesium flare. _(Alumina, silica, magnesia, lime and more. Bricks and mortar and wires and pipes and parts that were tantalisingly just beyond my ability to bring into focus.)_ I knew exactly what it was made of and how all the pieces fitted together in one coherent whole. And that meant I knew exactly how to tear it apart.

It wasn’t like the iron gate, not the same feeling of… malleability. No, this was the opposite. Brittle. Fragile. Breakable. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t use it. A tweak here, a nudge there, and I could bring the wall down on his head.

Wait, no; not just the wall.

That was…

I could sense the whole goddamn building.

Even in amidst the anger, the fear, and all the rest of it, something not unlike wonder kindled in my heart. This… This was awesome.

(Even if I could feel the migraine coiling around my brain, flexing its claws as it prepared to dig them in even deeper. I shoved it away. It was just pain, after all. Nothing important.)

I flexed my power experimentally, and the structure groaned and shivered as bonds shifted in a way the builders never intended. Dad glanced sharply up at it, and then back at me. The look on his face was unreadable. I took a breath, and for a brief, mad, moment I seriously considered just letting my power slip its leash (and that’s what it felt like; as if my power was a large animal straining to be set free), bringing the building down on his fucking head.

(Why was I so sure I could do that without risking injury to myself? I was standing here too, after all.)

But… I couldn’t do that. What if there were people inside? What if I hurt someone? Or worse?

And… And… And he was my father. I couldn’t…

I…

I couldn’t hurt him.

(Not that I ever really thought I could actually hurt him.)

That bringing a building down would draw attention, and that it might be connected with my little demonstration on the Boardwalk, was almost an afterthought.

As suddenly as it blazed to life, my anger died down to ashes, leaving behind nothing but the bitter taste of despair. (That there was fear pretty much went without saying.) I snatched my hand away from the wall as if it had been burned, the pain rushing back in to fill the void left by the dwindling of my power. I almost welcomed it. After all, it was nothing more than I deserved.

The expression on Dad’s face shifted fractionally, and I knew he’d seen the exact moment when the fight went out of me.

The moment I broke. Again.

And he hadn’t even had to lift a finger.

I didn’t think I’d ever hated myself as much as I did in that moment.

(I wasn’t sure whether it was for what I’d almost done, or for the fact that I’d failed.)

Dad shook me, making the world slip and slide around me as my head protested the rough treatment. (Not that this could really be considered rough. Not for him.) My teeth clacked together and I only narrowly avoiding biting my tongue.

“You will control yourself, girl,” he said and then, unexpectedly, he smiled. It… wasn’t a pleasant smile. “While I’m glad to see that you still have your spine, this is neither the time nor the place for such a childish display of defiance.” His smile widened, twisting into a sneer. “You really want to try and take me down, you better train up those shiny new powers of yours first.” He leaned in close, practically whispering his next words in my ear. “Trust me when I say that you do not want to take your shot and miss.”

By the time he’d finished, my heart was beating so hard and so fast I was surprised he couldn’t hear it.

Oh God.

What had I been thinking?

He let me go, stepping back just as suddenly as he’d lunged for me. Caught unawares, I stumbled and almost fell, only just managing to keep my feet. I fumbled the sunglasses back onto my face. They didn’t help nearly as much as I’d have liked.

“What’s wrong with you?” Dad demanded, watching me as I slowly drew myself upright and willed myself not to throw up.

“Thinker headache,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Thinker/shaker, huh?” he mused, and nodded to himself. “I can work with that.” He took on a brusque air, gesturing peremptorily. (It was a struggle not to flinch at the movement.) “Now, let’s get going. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

“Yes, Sir,” I sighed, forcing myself into motion. It took considerably more concentration than I was comfortable with to keep on putting one foot in front of the other. That’s why I wasn’t sure exactly how long we’d been moving for when Dad next spoke.

“It was your actions after the event in question that I was referring to.” It took me a moment to pick up the thread of the conversation, but I assumed this was his answer to my earlier questions. (I cringed a little inside at that reminder of how I’d practically yelled in his face.) “You disobeyed orders. Went AWOL and incommunicado.” He shook his head, sounding disgusted as he added, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

I didn’t think he meant that as a rhetorical question. I frantically searched for an answer he would accept.

“It… messed with my head, Sir. The event. I was disoriented.” Technically true. Actually misleading. I didn’t hold out much hope that it would work.

“Disoriented,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes, Sir,” I said, trying not to look as guilty as I felt.

“And the reason why you failed to answer your phone? I suppose that was due to ‘disorientation,’ as well, was it?” The biting sarcasm was an almost palpable thing.

_In for a penny, in for a pound…_

“In a manner of speaking, Sir. I fairly rapidly reached information overload with the thinker aspect of my power.” With a start, I wondered when the phrase ‘my power’ had started to feel natural to me. “That brought on a migraine, which made it quite difficult to focus.”

“Yet you still managed to focus enough to read and comprehend my message. And then you ran all the way from Campbell Park to the far end of the Boardwalk.”

Well, shit. He didn’t believe me.

Did he think I’d tried to run?

(My mind flinched away from the memories that thought threatened to drag up. No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wasn’t going to think about that. Now now, not ever again.)

“I was highly motivated, Sir,” was all I said out loud. It had the benefit of being entirely true, at least.

“Hmm.” He studied me thoughtfully, and I resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably under his measured stare, meeting his gaze like I had nothing to hide. “While we’re on the subject, I am highly disappointed that you decided the optimal course of action was to hare across town like a scared rabbit. I was sure I’d trained you better than that.”

His scathing tone could have stripped bark from trees. It wasn’t exactly undeserved, though. What I should have done was re-establish contact and request another rendezvous, one I could have travelled to in a more sedate manner. Instead, I…. Fuck. I just panicked. But I couldn’t exactly tell him that.

“Yes, Sir.”

“I should damn well think so,” he muttered. Shaking his head, he looked me up and down, his gaze sharpening until I was sure he could see right through me. Very deliberately, he asked, “Is there anything else I should know?”

Gallant.

I should tell him about Gallant. He needed to know that I’d been made by a Ward, even if my identity hadn’t been compromised. (At least, I thought it hadn’t. I really hoped it hadn’t, at any rate.) It could potentially affect operational security, after all. He really did need to know. I needed to tell him. Except… I couldn’t. Or, rather, I didn’t want to. Not just because he’d punish me for it, but…

But…

I just didn’t want to.

Dad frowned, and I realised with a start that I’d hesitated too long, thinking about what I wasn’t going to say. Now he knew for sure that I was holding something back.

Shit.

What could I do? What could I say? It felt like the business card Gallant gave me was burning a hole in my pocket. What if Dad searched me? What if he found it? That didn’t even bear thinking about. I couldn’t give him a reason to look. I had to throw him off the scent. But how?

“Don’t make me ask again, girl,” he rumbled warningly.

Hellfire!

Right. Okay. Fine. There was something I could do.

“I…” I began, then stopped, hesitated. Christ, I didn’t want to do this, but I didn’t see any other way. I took a breath and tried again. “I may have overstated the case a little, Sir, with regards to the disorientation.”

His expression was like thunder, heralding the storm to come.

“Explain.”

“After the disorientation passed, I made a choice to spend some time figuring out… my new situation. My abilities. I…” How to put this? “I believed it would be easier to achieve clarity with a short period of isolation. It was always my intention to return, Sir.” Mostly true. Aside from those first few moments when I’d chosen to bolt, I always knew I’d be going back. “And I was not expecting to remain incommunicado for so long.” That was completely true. If it hadn’t been for Gallant showing up, I’d probably have called or texted Dad that much sooner. “The migraine seems to have affected me quite severely.”

I waited with bated breath as he chewed my confession over. Would it be enough? I hoped it would be enough. The trick to keeping secrets wasn’t necessarily not to speak at all. Nor was it to lie outright. Especially when faced with an interrogator who not only knew all of your tells, but also knew exactly where to apply pressure. No, it was to offer up… alternatives. Something less valuable than whatever it was you truly wanted to hide. Something you could stand to give up. Bonus points if they had to put some effort into extracting it. If someone thought they’d gotten what they wanted, they rarely thought to look deeper. It had worked for me before.

But would it work this time?

“You made a choice to disobey a direct order. And to break the rules by maintaining radio silence.” It wasn’t really a question. I answered nevertheless, suppressing a wince of anticipation.

“Yes, Sir.”

A few heartstopping moments went by.

“I see.” That was… much more mild a reaction than I’d expected. Even when he went on to say, “So, not only did you display what I will charitably call piss-poor decision-making skills during what was potentially a crisis situation…” His face twisted with disgust. “You were also weak.”

It was clear which, in his opinion, was the more damning judgement. No surprise there. But it was also clear that he was expecting a response from me. Fortunately, I didn’t have to guess at the right answer this time.

“Yes, Sir.”

Even with the dread curling through me at his words, it was an effort to keep the relief from my voice. My gamble had worked. He didn’t think I had anything else to hide.

(If only he knew just how much I had to hide from him.)

I just had to make absolutely certain I never gave him a reason to wonder.

We walked in silence for a little while longer. I’d have called it companionable except I could practically feel the disappointment radiating from him in waves. I could see it every time he glanced my way. As for me, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d made a point of studying my father’s moods and expressions, and all my instincts were telling me that he had more to say. I tried to be patient. Even so, my skin was practically crawling with tension when he finally decided to speak again.

“I’m scrubbing tonight’s mission.”

For brief, glorious moment, I felt nothing but relief; the lifting of a burden I hadn’t let myself acknowledge since the moment I’d woken up in that dark, airless place. I didn’t have to worry about my first time taking point. My first time giving the orders, rather than merely following them. Because now that I’d turned sixteen, it was time I stepped up.

My first time…

I shoved the thought away before it could take form. No. Not now. I had to keep it together. I couldn’t think about this right now. Thinking too much was what had led to… Had…

Wait.

He was calling it off?

“Sir?” I enquired, cautiously.

“Your training is the priority right now. We need to see what you can do and figure out how to use it. Then you need to practise until you’re field ready.”

Field ready.

I didn’t want to think about what that meant.

“I’ve tested out some of what I can do already, Sir,” I offered. “But I think I’m going to need access to a variety of different materials to experiment properly.” I remembered the gate again. “Some form of metal, at the very least.”

“Not a problem. Just give me any specific requests ASAP. We’re going out to the cabin tonight.”

“We, Sir?” I asked, cautiously.

“Just you, me and Lance. I don’t think we need to bring the boys in at this stage.” He smiled thinly. “Think of it as a family outing. I’ll get the two of you out of school for the week — ‘flu ought to do it.” I honestly doubted that any of the teachers at Winslow would even notice if my brother and I just didn’t show up for a week, let alone care. But it was best not to take the risk. I hoped my schoolwork wasn’t going to suffer too much from missing a week of classes. In one corner of my mind, I started making a list of the assignments and textbooks I’d need to pack. “We’ll assess your progress at the end of the week; see if you’re going to need any further training to get up to speed,” Dad continued. He gave me a stern look. “But I think a week should be sufficient.”

Message received loud and clear. If my progress at the end of the week was insufficient, I was going to regret it.

“I’ll do my best, Sir.”

“I know you will.”

The combination of praise and threat made pride war with fear inside me. Dad always had such high expectations for me. But the penalties for failure were just as steep.

I’d just have to make damn sure I didn’t fail.

The rest of the journey passed in silence, Dad having apparently said all he’d intended to say. I still had that feeling of foreboding, though, coiling around me like the quiet closeness before a violent summer storm. There was no way I was getting off quite this easily. Not after the sins I’d confessed.

I could have sworn it should have taken longer to reach home, but it seemed like barely any time passed at all before we were making our way towards the modest, well-maintained house that was absolutely indistinguishable from its neighbours. Well, indistinguishable apart from its aura of overwhelming doom. But maybe I was just projecting. I was more than willing to admit that I might be a little biased.

The front door opened just as we reached it. Lance must have been in the front room, watching for our approach. I wondered what was going through his head right now. A host of fleeting, unreadable expressions seemed to battle for dominance over his face before his features settled into the same studied blankness I’d seen so often in the mirror.

“Sir,” Lance greeted Dad respectfully, holding the door open for him to enter. Dad acknowledged neither the greeting not the gesture, continuing through into the living room without so much as a backwards glance. Something that looked a lot like hurt flickered briefly in Lance’s eyes. When he turned to me, however, there was nothing but the raw envy he was obviously trying to bury under a veneer of contempt. “So, you came back after all,” he sneered. “Pity.” He let the door go just as I crossed the threshold, but even half-blinded by migraine and with my reflexes shot to shit, I still managed to stop it before it hit me in the face.

He must not have been making a serious effort.

“Asshole,” I growled, keeping a careful eye on him as I closed the door behind me.

“Bitch,” he retorted. Scowling, he started to say something else, only to break off as Dad’s voice snapped out.

“Both of you: in here, now.”

“Yes, Sir,” we chorused together. We glared at each other, and then hurried to obey our father. I shoved my hood down as I moved, yanking off the stupid cap and hanging it on a hook. After a moment’s indecision, however, I left the sunglasses on. I’d already told Dad about the migraine, after all. I hoped he’d understand.

He regarded the pair of us as we stood side by side, eyes front and backs straight, just as we’d been taught. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, and an expression of irritation crossed his face.

“Take off those ridiculous sunglasses,” he snapped.

Shit.

It seemed I was just made of bad decisions today.

“Sorry, Sir,” I muttered, yanking them off my face. In lieu of anything better to do with them, I shoved them in the pocket of my sweater.

Lance smirked maliciously at me, the expression vanishing without a trace when Dad turned his attention to him.

“The three of us are going to the cabin,” Dad informed Lance, his tone brusque. “You will assist me in teaching your sister to make effective use of her new abilities. We leave tonight, after I’ve taken care of some loose ends. If all goes well, I expect we’ll head back here a week tomorrow. I’ll deal with school. Make any other arrangements you need to and pack your things. Any questions?”

I had plenty, but he wasn’t talking to me. And I wouldn’t have asked them anyway. I wasn’t sure I would’ve liked any of the answers.

“The mission tonight, Sir?” Lance asked, his tone neutral.

“Postponed.” I knew that; I did. I didn’t really think it was scrubbed permanently, but hearing it aloud still sent a shiver of unease down my back. “This has priority for the moment. Any further questions?”

Lance hesitated a moment. “No, Sir.”

“Then you’re dismissed.”

“Yes, Sir.” He turned and left the room.

Now it was just me and Dad.

I watched my father warily. He studied me in turn, his expression hard. Slowly, with measured, controlled movements, he crossed the short distance between us to loom ominously over me. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze, trying not to squint at the light stabbing into my eyes.

“As for you, girl,” he said in a low, menacing voice. “We are going to have a discussion, you and I. About disobedience, among other things. I expect that it will take quite some time. We do, after all, have a great many things to discuss.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, dismally. I didn’t even have the will to note how fucked I was.

“Go down to the basement,” he ordered. “I’ll join you there shortly.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I did as I was told.

The knowledge that my fears had come to pass actually brought a peculiar kind of peace. (If I ignored the fact that, somewhere buried down deep inside, a part of me was screaming.)

It would be okay. It would. I would survive this.

I would endure.

I might break, but I could choose how I broke.

And then I’d pull myself back together again.

It was, after all, what I’d always done before.


	4. Claustrophobia 1.04

The door to my room crashed open, making me jump half out of my skin.

“You must be so relieved,” Lance sneered, striding towards me. For a brief, confused moment, I thought he meant that it was only him (not Dad, come to drag me back down to the basement), but then he continued speaking. “You’ve managed to put off fucking up your blooding. For a week, at least.”

The words hit me like a punch in the gut. My eyes widened, my breath catching in my throat as I fought and failed to control my reactions.

My intended blooding. My intended initiation. My intended first kill.

The room wavered around me, my face feeling hot and tight, my pulse thundering in my ears.

I tried to pull myself together, to recover my composure, but it was too late. Lance, the bastard, smirked broadly as he saw that his barb had sunk home.

“Yeah,” he said, practically radiating smugness. “Figured as much.”

It was time, Dad had said. I was sixteen now: I wasn’t a child any longer. It was time I proved myself. He even had a target in mind. He said I was ready. He said I could do this. He… He said I had to do this.

“Fuck you,” I breathed, trying for anger even though I was reeling inside. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

The target — the man — wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t anyone. Dad just took exception to a… person of Asian extraction — not his actual words — opening up a business in his old neighbourhood. In what used to be Empire territory, fifteen years ago, before Dad had his little falling out with them.

“Sure, I do,” Lance said, a malicious glint in his eyes. “It’s obvious. I know it, the whole squad knows it. Dad would know it too if he didn’t have such a fucking blind spot where you’re concerned. You’re not ready for real work. I don’t think you ever will be ready. You just don’t have the stomach for it.”

Executing some poor bastard who was just trying to make a living? Damn right I didn’t have the stomach for that.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t known they did this sort of thing. Occasionally. It was more that Dad preferred to focus his fury on the other gangs; ripping them off, making them bleed. And I hadn’t really been all that directly involved in the latter operations, much less the random acts of violence that comprised the former.

But they were my family. In a world where — up until the last couple of years — we’d always been moving around, Lance and Dad were my only constants. Without them — even as shitty as I knew they were — I didn’t have anything.

Certainly not here, in Brockton Bay.

I… I just didn’t know what to do.

Lance shook his head as I tried, again, and failed, again, to recover my shattered equilibrium, apparently lacking the patience to wait for whatever response I could cobble together.

“It’s pathetic,” he said, disgust replacing the sadistic satisfaction in his voice. “You’re pathetic. If you can’t even put down one filthy subhuman, what are you going to do when you have to take out a real target? He’s only a…”

I flinched inside at his words — especially those words — tuning out the rest of his little tirade. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before, after all.

I was never quite sure if Lance actually bought into the company line, or if was just doing an excellent job of pretending that he did. If he, like me, just didn’t want to tell Dad what a crock of shit it all was. If it was the latter, I guessed I couldn’t really blame him. Either way, it wasn’t exactly something I could just ask about.

(I made the mistake of questioning Dad about his worldview once, when I was young and stupid. Not even arguing, not really. Just… asking questions.)

(Once. Never again.)

(The same way I only ever made one serious attempt to run over the years. Not ever, ever, **ever** again.)

(Now, I had the sense to confine the majority of my petty rebellions to the privacy of my own mind.)

(Not that this particular rebellion had been easy. When you swam in filth, after all, you couldn’t help but get dirty. Sometimes, it was hard to even identify the toxic patterns of thought I’d been infected by over the years, let alone burn them out. I had to question everything I thought I knew. It was hard, but I persevered. For the sake of my own pride, if nothing else, failure was simply not an option.)

(Dad might be able to make me obey, but not even he could make me believe.)

“…about when we go up against a cape?” Lance was saying when I tuned back in. “You think Hookwolf’s just going to wait around politely for you to get your shit together? Or Kaiser?”

My stomach twisted. Kaiser. The whole fucking point of this exercise. The reason Dad had taken Lance and me and gone underground. The reason he’d been training us for war for as long as I could remember. The reason why we’d returned to Brockton Bay in the first place.

The fucking mission.

“Did you think we were going to be able to take on the Empire without you getting your hands bloody?”

That finally snapped me out of my paralysis. I stood up straight, ignoring the way my back protested as I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, fixing him with a contemptuous stare.

“I thought you wanted to join the Empire, not take them on.”

God knows he hung around with enough of the fuckers at school; them and all their hangers on and wannabes. His so-called friends.

He clenched his fists, his face flushing with anger. “It’s a good way of getting intel,” he said with irritation.

I knew he’d made the same argument to Dad. He did so every time the recruiters came sniffing around, which they’d started doing more and more often lately. It made sense. He ticked pretty much all their boxes, after all: white, expressed the right opinions about anyone who wasn’t, built like a brick shithouse, and knew how to handle himself in a fight. They had to be practically drooling at the prospect. Whenever he raised the subject with Dad, though, Dad had always denied him permission; said it was too much of a risk.

“So you say.” I made sure to fill my voice with as much scepticism as I could muster. “Personally, I think you’ve just gone native. Gone **soft**.”

I had no idea whether or not that was true, but experience had taught me that it was a pretty damned effective way to wind him up. Sure enough, his face went even redder and he surged forward, invading my personal space. It was times like this when it was really fucking obvious that he had a year, a good few inches of height and a whole fuck of a lot of muscle mass on me. (There was a reason I had to fight dirty when we sparred.) Nevertheless, I stood my ground, glaring right back at him as he sneered in my face.

“You shut your mouth,” he said. “You’re just jealous because I actually have friends. Because people actually like and respect me.”

I felt my mouth curl up into a sneer of my own. Lance, I reflected, always had relied on other people far too much. That was why the constant moving around had been so hard on him. Unlike me, he’d never learned the lesson about not forming attachments. If you weren’t invested in them, then you lost nothing of importance when you inevitably had to leave them behind. If they weren’t invested in you, then there was little risk of them being interested enough to pry into things that they shouldn’t. Less risk of blowing your cover.

(Less risk of them getting hurt when they asked the wrong questions. Or when they made you start asking the wrong questions.)

Things were just so much simpler when you never let anyone get close.

(Sure, it got a little lonely every now and then, but that was okay. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.)

He didn’t know a fucking thing. And I really, really, really wanted to hurt him for that.

“You’re just jealous because I’ve got powers now.”

The words spilled out before I even realised what I was about to say. I froze, feeling a phantom pressure at my throat, the memory of pain and terror like a shadow on my skin. Lance’s face paled, and he swallowed audibly; I knew he was feeling exactly the same thing I was.

(That was the problem with sharing so much history. If either one of us tried to cut the other, odds were that both of us would end up bleeding.)

And then, his expression twisting into a mask of rage and hate, he drew back his fist. I shifted my weight onto the balls of my feet, keeping my body loose and ready to move (still resolutely ignoring the way it complained), but to my surprise the blow never came. Instead, he stopped and let his fist drop back to his side.

“Fucking bitch!” he snarled. “You’re damn lucky I’m under orders not to lay a finger on you. Not until we start your special training.”

I blinked, caught off guard. Dad had told him to leave me alone? He’d never done that before. Usually, he preferred us to settle our differences between ourselves, only weighing in on our little spats if he thought one of us went too far. Or if we broke the rules. I guessed it made sense, though. Dad always knew exactly how much force to use, and stuck to the limits he set himself, no matter how angry he got. Lance had a tendency to let his temper drive him further than he meant to go.

(Then again, it wasn’t like I wasn’t the same way, sometimes.)

Given just how pissed off Lance was with me right now, Dad probably just didn’t want to take the risk that my training might have had to be postponed if I ended up too damaged to function effectively.

Still…

“Don’t hold back on my account,” I said lightly, dismissively.

Baiting him was probably a really bad idea. Actually, no. I could strike the ‘probably.’ It was definitely a bad idea. But it wasn’t like I was going to back down, no matter how little I actually wanted a fight right now. No, ‘wanted’ was the wrong word. I absolutely wanted nothing more than to beat seven shades of shit out of the bastard. I just didn’t think I had a snowball’s chance in hell of actually winning. The most I was likely to manage was to make him bleed for taking me down. Which, honestly, I’d ordinarily be more than willing to settle for, especially if it earned him his own trip to the basement.

But I was just so tired right now.

It was probably weak of me, but I was actually relieved when Lance decided not to press the issue.

“Don’t tempt me,” he muttered. He shook his head. “But no, you’re not worth it.” He flicked his gaze over me contemptuously, and snorted loudly. “I bet you’re so fucking pleased with yourself right now. Of course you would be the one to give the old man what he really wanted. Of course it would be you. You’ve always been his precious little golden child.”

I just stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to speak for a second or two. Was he delusional? Was he completely out of his fucking mind? On what planet was that even close to true?

“If I’m his ‘precious golden child,’ Lance,” I spat, finally finding my voice. “Then why does my back have more stripes than the goddamn Siberian right now?”

Why did my throat feel like it had been scoured raw?

Did he think I’d been down in the basement all that time getting a lollipop and a pat on the head?

“You brought that on yourself,” he sneered. “If you hadn’t fucked up, he wouldn’t have had to discipline you. But you’ve always been his favourite. You’re the one he had such high hopes for; the one he always thought had so much potential.”

“The one he had running drills over and over again while you got to spend time with your precious friends, you mean,” I shot back. “The one who wasn’t allowed to go to bed until I’d achieved whatever objective he set for me that day, even though he let you sleep whenever you fucking felt like it. The one he beat black and blue just for getting a B on a test, while you can even get away with a C once in a while!”

I practically screamed the last words, so goddamn furious right now it felt like I was on fire with it. I hated him so, so much. He thought I was the favourite? He was the goddamn favourite! It had always been him. All our lives, he’d always had it so fucking easy. I was the one who was never fucking good enough. I tried so damn hard, but the goalposts just kept moving, the objectives more and more impossible, and just getting by wasn’t anywhere near good enough. Because anything less that total perfection was considered failure.

And failure was always punished.

**Always.**

My skin itched in a way that had nothing to do with the welts and the bruises and the scars stamped all over it, my power practically begging me to set it free.

If I’d had the first clue how to use it to tear my asshole brother into little, tiny pieces, I might just have given in.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Lance yelled back. “He pushes you. Because he cares about you in a way he’s never ever cared about me. Half the time, he doesn’t even notice I’m there. But you? He always makes time for you. How can you not see that? How can you be so fucking ungrateful?”

I stared at him, my rage briefly checked by sheer incredulity.

“Ungrateful,” I echoed, flatly.

“Yes, ungrateful! You’re his heir apparent. You’re the one he’s chosen to follow in his footsteps; to be the leader. And what am I supposed to be? Your fucking lieutenant! I’m supposed to have your back while he hands you every goddamn thing I ever wanted on a golden platter.” His chest was heaving, his breathing harsh and ragged as the muscles in his forearms corded visibly beneath the the skin. His fists were clenched so tightly that it had to have been hurting him, but he neither seemed to notice nor care. Unexpectedly, he laughed; a bitter, jagged sound that made me flinch inside. “And you know what the worst thing is? You don’t even want it. You don’t want any of it. He doesn’t see it, but I do. You’re too weak to do what needs to be done. Too soft to make the hard decisions. And when you show your true colours, when you break under the strain, you’re going to take the rest of us down with you.”

“Go fuck yourself!” I snarled, guilt and rage coiling queasily in my gut. “I’m stronger than you think I am.”

“You’d better be. For all our sakes.” He shook his head, looking at me like I was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “You know? For a while, I thought I might actually have a chance, but now you’ve gone and triggered. How can I compete with that? What can I possibly do that’s going to be good enough for him now?”

I… didn’t have an answer to that. All I could do was blink stupidly at him as he continued to rant.

”I’ve followed his orders to the letter. I’ve done everything he’s ever asked of me. I’ve been a good soldier. I’ve **killed** for him, Astrid. I’ve carried out missions for him that would turn your fucking stomach if you only knew. But you’re the one he chose. And you’re the one who ended up with powers. You’re the cape kid he always wanted.”

I started to hurl back a retort, but then I looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in a long time; saw the defeat written in the slump of his shoulders, the raw pain in his eyes, and I… hesitated.

We’d been friends, once, my brother and I. Long ago and far away from this toxic fucking shithole of a town. We’d looked out for each other. It had been the two of us against the world, and no matter how bad things got at home, we’d been secure in the certain knowledge that we could weather even the worst of the storms.

As long as we stood together.

When did we go from having each other’s backs to trying to tear each other apart?

When did we become each other’s worst enemies?

When did things between us get so very, very fucked up?

There was a moment when I thought about trying to reach out to him. Now that this was finally out in the open, maybe we could actually talk about it. Maybe we could try to, I don’t know, fix things somehow. Or, at least, not break them even further.

Maybe we could…

But then he said those words.

“And you’re not even **his**.”

I sucked in a breath, rocked back on my heels for the second time since he’d burst into my room unannounced.

“Shut up,” I said, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “Just… shut up.”

“You know it’s true,” he said viciously, every word another arrow in my heart. “I’m his flesh and blood. I’m his son. You’re just some stray who lives in our house; some stray he took in because he’s still hung up on your mother, even though she’s fifteen years fucking dead and gone. You’re not family. You’re not one of us. You’re nothing.”

I swallowed hard, and it felt like I had a mouthful of broken glass. Like I was being sliced to ribbons from the inside out.

I knew Gavin wasn’t my father by blood. He’d never made any particular secret of who I was and where I came from. But he was the only father I’d ever known, the only parent I’d ever known. He’d never, not once in my whole life, made me feel like I wasn’t his daughter. Like Lance wasn’t my brother. Blood and biology weren’t the be-all and end-all. They were my family in every way that mattered.

And to hear Lance say that they weren’t…

It hurt more than any physical pain I’d ever suffered.

I was going to make him pay for that.

I drew myself up, looked him right in the eye, and bared my teeth in what was only very technically a smile.

“Say that to Dad, Lance. Go on, I dare you. Even better: tell him what you said about my mother.”

I felt a spiteful thrill of satisfaction as he blanched, flinching away from me.

Despite what our blood might have said, Dad had said that I was his. And when Dad said something was so, you didn’t dare contradict him if you knew what was good for you. Lance had tried throwing the ‘not family’ thing in my face before, back when things had only just started to go so very, very wrong between us. Dad had overheard him.

He’d never said it again. Not ever. Not even when Dad wasn’t around. Not until now.

_And Lord only knows what Dad would do if he ever heard that Lance disrespected my mother like that._

I took advantage of Lance’s discomfiture to sway forward a step, shoving him back with a palm heel to the sternum. If he’d been braced for it, I wouldn’t have been able to budge him, but like this? He actually stumbled a little before he caught himself. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to let me get the next strike in.

Another verbal jab.

“Must be hard for you, I guess. I mean, my mom died, and Dad actually made a choice to take me in and raise me as his daughter. He didn’t have to, but he did. You, though?” I leaned forward to whisper poison right in his ear, showing by my proximity that I didn’t consider him to be a threat. (He was totally a threat to me, but I wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop me from making a point.) “Your mother just didn’t love you enough to stick around. She ran away and left you behind, saddling Dad with you whether he wanted you or not.”

He twitched, making an inarticulate sound that could have been pain or anger or, most likely, both. Good. I backed up again, wanting to give myself room to manoeuvre when the volatile emotions between us inevitably boiled over into violence. One way or another, they always did.

For better or for worse, we were both our father’s children.

Even though it was exactly what I’d been aiming for there was a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I met Lance’s eyes again, and saw the darkness there. (I couldn’t stop now, no matter how much a small, treacherous, weak part of me wanted to.)

“Shut your fucking mouth, bitch,” he said, his whole body rigid with anger. “Or I’ll shut it for you, orders be damned. You don’t know a goddamn thing about my mother.”

“I know enough,” I sniffed. “She was weak. And so are you.” I narrowed my eyes, as if in thought. “Maybe that’s why he chose ‘some stray’ over his own flesh and blood. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think you’re good enough to give the orders and not just take them. Because he thinks of you as your mother’s son, rather than as his.” I let an expression of bored indifference settle onto my face; like I couldn’t even be bothered to muster up any actual contempt. “And,” I drawled, “your whore of a mother was just too weak for him.”

His right fist shot out towards me, but I was already moving, blocking the blow with my left forearm and shoving his arm aside, letting my hand continue its arc with the intent of gripping and pulling at his arm as I jabbed towards his throat with the stiffened fingers of my other hand.

And that was when it all started to go wrong.

As soon as my skin made contact with his sleeve, I could feel the structure in my mind; distracting me for a crucial breath, which was practically a lifetime in a fight. My throat jab made contact, but my angle was off, so that he only coughed a little, rather than choking and gasping for breath. More importantly, I completely missed his followup strike until the left hook slammed into my unguarded side. I staggered with the impact, shoving the pain aside and trying to clear my head, using the momentum to turn and lash out with a kick, trying to buy myself some space. Sensing my weakness, Lance pressed his attack, forcing me onto the defensive. A quick exchange of blows and I was reeling again, disoriented by information overload from my power surging through everything I touched.

Oh, and the punch to the fucking face that snapped my head back, making me see stars.

(We weren’t supposed to go for the face. That was one of the rules: don’t leave marks that couldn’t be covered up. Maybe Lance had just decided that, if was going to disobey one order, he might as well disobey them all.)

I shook it off as best as I could, getting my guard back up and stamping down hard on his instep with my heel.

He hit me in the face again; a backhanded blow that was somehow even more humiliating that the punch had been. That, unfortunately, pretty much set the tone for the rest of our brief, inglorious scuffle. Which isn’t to say that I didn’t get in a few good hits of my own — maybe not enough to properly salve my pride, but better than nothing — but I was very definitely not at the top of my game.

I couldn’t even figure out a way to use all the information flooding into my mind. I could rip the bonds apart, I was pretty sure, but I failed to see how shredding Lance’s clothes was going to help me punch his fucking lights out.

If I’d had more time to think, I could have figured something out, but time was a luxury I didn’t have right now.

_Stupid goddamn powers! Why couldn’t I have gotten a fucking brute package?_

The fight ended with me down on the ground, struggling to breathe after a knee to the gut had sent the air whooshing out of my lungs. Lance drew his foot back, and I tried to curl into a defensive position in anticipation of a kick, but he just set his foot down on the ground again and shook his head.

“Christ, Astrid. That was even more pathetic than usual. Were you even trying?”

_Son of a_ **_bitch_ ** _!_

I thought he was still speaking, but I couldn’t hear a word over the roaring in my ears. Adrenaline trumped both anoxia and agony, letting me lunge forward to wrap a hand around his ankle. More importantly, my skin made contact with the material of his jeans. Because petty spite was one hell of a motivator, and I’d figured out something I could do with my power. Denim, you see, was compressible. With malicious anticipation, I reached out with my power and made it _constrict_. Lance yelped and toppled over, clutching at himself. I’d… never even realised his voice could go that high.

Now that was a salve to my pride.

I only kept him more or less immobilised for a handful of seconds — just about as long as it took for me to get my breath back — and then I allowed the fibres to relax again and let go of his ankle. Carefully, I got to my feet. He did the same, and we eyed each other warily. I didn’t think he was going to continue this, but you never knew. I certainly wasn’t planning on letting my guard down anytime soon. What I’d just done to him was the kind of thing I could see a guy taking personally, after all.

“No, pathetic was that sound you just made,” I told him, belatedly. Fuck, I hurt. But I did my level best not to show it as I fixed him with a glare. “Now, are we done here?”

He glared at me, but there was something uncertain in his eyes.

“What the fuck was that?” he ground out, his voice now back to its normal deep register.

I shrugged, stifling a gasp as my back protested the movement. “Powers, remember? Do try to keep up.” He still made no move to leave, looking at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to figure out. Who the hell knew what was going through his head? I sighed. “Get the fuck out of my room, Lance, and close the door behind you. I need to finish packing.”

“You’re not done yet? I’m already finished.”

I gave him a flat look, my tone biting as I reminded him: “I was ‘otherwise occupied’ for a while, remember?”

To my surprise, he twitched a little and looked away. If it had been anyone but Lance, I might have said that he actually looked a little guilty. Whatever. I really didn’t have time for this shit. I wasn’t kidding about having to finish packing. I’d barely even started yet, and I wasn’t going to be the one responsible for holding up our departure. Even though it made the skin between shoulder blades itch to do so, I deliberately turned my back on Lance and headed towards my bed where I’d started laying out clothes. I caught sight of the schoolwork I’d set aside on my desk out of the corner of my eye. Which reminded me…

“Can I borrow your chemistry textbook when you’re not using it?” I called over my shoulder.

“What do you want that for?” he asked.

I started to shrug, and then thought better of it.

“Might help me figure out more of what I can do if I have a broader understanding of chemical structures.” Maybe a little more context might help the information I got to not be so overwhelming. (Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much.) “Anyway, why do you care what I need it for? Can I borrow it or not?”

The floorboards creaked a little, and I tensed, but it seemed like he was only shifting in place

“Sure. I was going to pack it anyway. I have a test coming up, and I really need to study.”

I expected him to leave then, but he still stood there, waiting for who the fuck knew what. Christ, what did he want from me? Was he hoping to see me break down and cry? Joke was on him, then. It had been years since I’d actually cried. I wasn’t sure I even know how any more. I waited, trying to concentrate on my packing, but my patience only went so far. Sighing, I turned around to face him again, raising my eyebrows enquiringly.

“Did you need something, Lance?”

“What?” He looked startled, and then his expression smoothed out, becoming an unreadable blank mask. “No. I was just wondering… Do you want me to bring you an ice pack? For your face, I mean.” He gestured vaguely in my direction, looking distinctly awkward. “It might help to stop it bruising.”

Oh. Now I understood. I smiled mirthlessly at him. “Worried Dad will figure out you’ve been a naughty boy?”

Something flickered briefly in his eyes, there and gone again much too quickly for me to figure out what it meant. “Look,” he said gruffly. “Do you want it or not? No skin off my nose either way.”

“Sure, why not?” I agreed, carefully refraining from shrugging. “In fact, bring a couple. I think I might have sprained my wrist a little, too.”

Although that might have happened earlier, when Dad-

It might have happened earlier.

Anyway, I was more worried about my wrist than about my stupid face.

Lance nodded and, wonder of wonders, actually turned to leave this time. He didn’t go more than a few steps, though, before pausing again. I bit back a groan.

_What now?_

“Are you going to tell Dad? About what I said?”

It took me a second to figure out what he was talking about. ‘Some stray.’ My mother. Oh. I supposed I could drop him in it, but… I shook my head. (Ow, ow, fucking ow.)

“Snitching is more your thing than mine, Lance. I’m not going to tell him.”

I pretended I didn’t see the way he sagged a little, relief making him look younger than his seventeen years. He looked almost vulnerable. Whatever. I didn’t care.

“I’ll be back with those ice packs. You’d better hurry up and finish packing.”

I rolled my eyes. “No, I totally planned on taking my sweet time with it. Anyway, maybe it’d go faster if you fucked off and let me get on with it.”

“Bitch,” he said, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.

“Asshole,” I retorted, in exactly the same tone. He rolled his eyes and strolled out, leaving the door wide open. “Were you raised in a barn?” I called out, raising my voice a little so he’d hear me. “Shut the fucking door!”

There was no response.

When he came back with the icepacks, he was also carrying his chemistry textbook, which I hadn’t been expecting. I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Thought you needed to study?”

“I still have time.” His lips twisted in a wry smile that didn’t even remotely make it all the way to his eyes. “Besides, all I have to do is get a C, right Triss?”

I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. He left the textbook on my desk and departed my room in silence, actually closing the door behind him this time.

It was only after he’d gone, and I was perched carefully on my bed with one icepack on my face and the other one on my wrist, that I registered what he’d called me.

Triss.

Huh.

Now, there was a nickname I hadn’t heard in years.

Maybe I hadn’t been the only one thinking back to happier times.


	5. Claustrophobia 1.05

  


I shifted restlessly on the chair, trying to get comfortable. It was pretty much a losing proposition. Oh, tonight’s several hours long car journey was going to be fun. I glared at the chemistry textbook open on the desk in front of me as if it had personally offended me. It kind of had. I was hoping that trying to focus on that would help to distract me from, well, everything while I waited for Dad to get back from wherever he’d gone.

(It seemed that disciplining me hadn’t been the only loose end he’d wanted to tie up before we left. I didn’t know what other business he’d had to deal with, and I wasn’t going to ask. If he’d wanted me to know, he would have told me.)

Apparently distracting myself was also a losing proposition. I sighed softly and got to my feet. Maybe moving around would help get rid of some of this nervous energy.

I went through some gentle stretches and wandered my room a little aimlessly, ending up in front of my mirror. Lance’s words from earlier weighed heavily on my mind. Family. Not family. (Nothing.) Stupidly, foolishly, I started searching my reflection for a resemblance, trying to fit the familiar pattern of my features into a different context; one in which we could be blood relatives. I mean, I knew we weren’t, and I definitely knew it didn’t matter that we weren’t. Blood was the very least of what made a family, after all. A bond you chose was surely so much stronger than one forced on you by a mere accident of biology.

But still… It was suddenly very important to me to know that, in the eyes of a stranger, we could be connected in that way. That I could be Gavin’s daughter in the same way that Lance was his son. Hypothetically, at least.

Okay. Not the hair, obviously. Mine was a dark blonde, while theirs was a brown so deep it was almost black. I noted absently that it was just about time for another haircut. It was well past my shoulders now, trailing annoyingly a little way down my back. Not for the first time, I wished Dad would let me cut it short. Or, hell, just cut it off altogether. Even when I wore it in a ponytail, it just made for much too tempting a target in a fight. I’d lost count of the number of times Lance had nearly yanked a handful out by the roots before I’d managed to make him let go. But no. It was flat out fucking forbidden.

(Dad’s reaction actually surprised me a little. Usually, he was all about what was the most practical, the most effective, the most efficient. When it came to my hair, though, apparently all that went right out the window. But then… Mom had had long hair. In all the photos I’d seen, she’d worn it in a thick braid that reached more than halfway down her back. I’d never seen it unbound. Merely keeping mine just below shoulder-length was an acceptable compromise, I supposed. I shuddered to think what a hassle it would be to take care of if it was much longer.)

Complexion was another bust. Their skin was ruddy, while mine had a tendency to tan at the merest hint of sunlight. A long face (‘horse-like,’ Lance called it) to their squarish, strong-jawed profiles. A nose that belonged on a Roman coin, while theirs were broad and slightly flattened. Even knowing this was ridiculous — that I was being ridiculous — I actually felt my pulse start to pick up a little with anxiety as I looked and looked and came up with nothing.

_Come on; there must be something._

There had to be. It didn’t have to be anything major, just some minor feature I could point to and say, ‘if things had been different, I could have got this from Dad.’

Eyes, maybe? We all had brown eyes, after all. Mine were lighter, though. Close enough? But then I considered our relative builds and nodded in satisfaction. There it was. Dad and Lance were both built like brick shithouses. I might now have been anywhere near as large as them, but I was still pretty damn tall and very solidly built. And it made sense that I’d be slimmer and shorter, what with me being a girl. The envy was reflexive at this point. I’d had to work so damn hard to achieve even a fraction of the physical strength that came naturally to them. But right at this moment, envy took a distant second place to the warmth of relief. I’d found what I was looking for.

Anyway, this was stupid. I **was** my father’s daughter. Lance **was** my brother. We were family in every way that mattered. And family was everything.

Family, after all, was all I had.

* * * * *

A fist slammed into my gut with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I almost doubled over with the impact, coughing, my mental map of atoms and molecules and bonds and shapes and structures jarred into fuzziness. Trying vainly to blink away the spots from my vision, I backed away and got my guard back up, frantically looking for my opponent.

Lance was back on the other side of the mat, standing in a ready position. Smirking.

_Bastard._

“You need to focus,” Dad said sternly. “You can’t let yourself be so caught up in what your power’s telling you that you lose your situational awareness. You need to know where the enemy is at all times and be able to respond appropriately to their attacks. The one you miss could well be the one that kills you.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said, glaring at Lance.

The son of a bitch just smirked even more. Of course he did. He was getting to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes: smacking me around. With parental approval, no less. And, so far, I was doing a pretty fucking lousy job of stopping him. And the goddamn migraine was back. ‘Special training’ fucking sucked. And so did my brother.

“Astrid,” Dad said, his voice quiet.

“Yes, Sir?” I looked up at him, and wondered at the expression on his face. He looked… worried?

“This is the end point of all your training. That training is what will let you survive to claim your birthright. You’re a cape now. You’ll have to fight, whether you want to or not. That’s the way the world works: you fight or you die. And I have no fucking intention of letting you die.”

I studied him for a moment, not sure what to say, or even if I needed to say anything at all. A pleasant warmth hummed inside me, and I felt a small, fierce smile lift the corners of my mouth. I nodded to him. He nodded back. I turned to face Lance again, catching him with a slight frown on his face. I wondered what what going through his head.

“Now,” Dad said, and the both of us snapped to attention. “Again.”

“Yes, Sir,” Lance and I chorused together.

I let my awareness spread out as Lance and I circled each other, looking for an opening, deliberately trying to gather as much information as possible through my power. Preferably while still keeping enough of an eye on Lance that I wouldn’t miss his next attack.

I could feel the training mat flexing beneath my bare feet _(ethylene vinyl acetate, polyethylene terephthalate)_. The material of my clothes. The bands of cloth and vinyl and silicone and elastic around my wrists. The-

_Ow! Fuck!_

My back hit the mat with a thump, and I stifled a yelp as what felt like every single welt and bruise lit up in lines of fire. Lance had gone for a leg sweep this time, presumably to mix things up a bit. By the time I got back to my feet, he was back in the start position. I swear, if his smirk got any wider, the top of his damn head was going to fall off. And I would laugh myself sick. Anyway, I would get this right if it killed me. Or him.

“Again.”

* * * * *

I glared at my enemy. My enemy was unmoved. Then again, phones didn’t tend to be overly responsive to death glares.

I sighed, feeling the leaden weight of exhaustion settle into my bones. I would’ve slumped down in my seat, but I already knew what a bad idea that was. With a certain kind of bleak humour, I couldn’t help observing that this whole experience was just great for my posture, my spine straight enough to satisfy a whole host of etiquette teachers.

Okay. Enough procrastinating. The sooner I completed my task, the sooner I could get to bed. And I really, really, really wanted to sleep right now. I took a drink of water and regarded my enemy once more. I swear it almost looked as though the phone was smirking at me.

I reached out a hand, and lightly rested the tip of one finger on it. My senses were immediately assailed by a flood of **too much information** , making the migraine sit up and pay attention, making me grit my teeth to hold back a whimper. Forcing myself to concentrate, I deliberately narrowed my focus.

I hadn’t yet figured out a way to turn off my… Matter awareness? Stuff sense? Whatever it should be called, it didn’t seem to come with an off-switch. There did, however, seem to be the equivalent of a dimmer. With some effort, I could dial it down so that touching especially complex or large items wasn’t the informational equivalent of trying to drink directly from a fire hose. Not too much, anyway.

The flood lessened noticeably, and I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. Right. Stage one complete. Now came the hard part. Slowly, carefully, I sent my awareness ghosting through the phone, tracing out components and structures, building a mental map of how it was put together. At least, that was the intention. Frustratingly, however, what I ended up with was disjointed, incomplete. Some parts stubbornly refused to focus, while others were almost too… sharp? Too loud? Too bright? (I was still figuring out a vocabulary for something that didn’t seem to translate directly into the usual senses. Touch was closest, I guessed, but it wasn’t the whole of it, not by a long way.) Whatever the right words, it was like trying to see a lighthouse with the sun behind it, or pick out one melody from a dozen all playing at once.

Maybe I just lacked the necessary context. Dammit. Was I going to have to study electrical engineering too? I half-considered suggesting to Dad that I might be better off focusing on simpler things for now. Electronic devices seemed to be a little beyond my current… Resolution? Processing capacity? I mean, breaking them, sure. Apparently, I didn’t need to understand all the ins and outs of how something worked to make it stop. I’d already bricked one phone and, uh, ‘violently discorporated’ another when my power flared out of control. Luckily, they were all old ones: burners that had reached the end of their useful lifespan. Eminently disposable.

Anyway, whatever the issue was, it was annoying. But I needed to at least make a good faith effort with this before just giving up. Which meant…

_Ah, my nemesis. We match wits again._

“You still up?”

I did not jump. Nuh uh. No way, no how. Instead, I turned very calmly and with great dignity to face my asshole brother and give him a look that could have cracked stone. Dammit! I’d thought I was getting better at the ‘maintaining situational awareness’ thing. Apparently, in my eagerness to get this done I’d backslid a little.

“Fuck off, Lance,” I told him waspishly. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“You should have seen the way you jumped,” he gloated, the expression on his face — that damnable smirk, naturally — making it look really very punchable right about now. Of course, his face pretty much always looked punchable to me. Even as I thought that, his thrice-damned smirk took on a certain sly, malicious edge. “You had no idea I was there, did you? If Dad knew how much you’d just zoned out, he’d have your guts for garters.”

I rolled my eyes.

“So run along and tattle to him like the little bitch you are, and leave me the hell alone.”

To my own ears, at least, I managed to sound like I didn’t fear the consequences of failure. I had no idea whether or not Lance was convinced. Either way, instead of running off to tell tales — not that I was bitter — he ambled over to me and peered down at the phone like he was half expecting it to do something interesting.

“You need something?” I demanded impatiently. “Because I’m really kinda busy here.” I checked the time, and really wished I hadn’t. “What are you even doing up? You don’t have to be.”

(Although, I recalled, in the last year or so, Lance never did seem to sleep particularly well when we came out here. He tended to be the last one to bed and the first one up, and often looked like death warmed over by the time we went home again. If we’d had a functional relationship, I might have asked him about it. As it was, I supposed it would have to remain a mystery.)

He shrugged. “Woke up. Went to get a drink of water.” He gestured with the glass he held in his hand and grinned. “I just wanted to see if you managed to make this one blow up in your face, too.”

“It didn’t blow up,” I protested. “It just… fell apart. Enthusiastically.” Something to do with the way my power had futzed with the battery, I thought. I wasn’t entirely sure. At the time, I was too busy trying to avoid a face full of shrapnel.

“Whatever. It was funny as hell from where I was sitting.”

“See if you think it’s as funny when it’s your phone,” I muttered. I smiled in a way that might have been ever so slightly feral around the edges and added, “Personally, I think it’ll be fucking hilarious when it goes bang in your pocket tomorrow.”

“You wouldn’t,” he sneered. I gave him a disbelieving look. “You can’t,” he amended.

“Can’t I?”

He side-eyed me. “It was an accident. You said yourself you didn’t know how it happened. That means you can’t replicate it.”

“You just keep telling yourself that. I’m sure it’s a great comfort to you.”

I wasn’t ashamed to admit I took a certain petty satisfaction in the flicker of uncertainty that showed in his eyes. Even if he then gave a disparaging snort and said, dismissively:

“You do anything like that to me and Dad’ll make sure you can’t sit down for a month.”

“Might just be worth it,” I fired back.

“Psycho bitch.”

“Fucking asshole.”

The sad thing, I noted, was that for us, this was practically friendly. At least we were only exchanging verbal blows, not physical ones.

I gave him one last glare and then, very deliberately, I turned my back on him so I could focus on my other enemy. If nothing else, I guessed that having Lance behind me was excellent motivation to hold onto awareness of my surroundings as I tried to map out the inner structure of the phone. I wasn’t sure, but it almost seemed like my power felt a little more responsive this time. I even managed to pin down one of the parts that had been eluding me. Encouraged, I threw myself into the task with renewed vigour.

Maybe I would actually get to sleep tonight after all.

* * * * *

“Again.”

The concrete block collapsed into dust, the bulk of it disappearing from my power’s perception. I could still feel the grains that clung to my skin, but it was barely an effort to slough those off. It would be a different matter if it got into my lungs, though, so I tried not to breathe it in.

“What happened?”

I was supposed to be shaping the concrete, not destroying it.

“I believe it’s a limitation of the material, Sir,” I said cautiously, willing Dad not to think I was making excuses. “It’s insufficiently malleable to allow me to change the structure much without breaking bonds. Break too many, and it just falls apart.”

Just like my wooden barricade.

“Something you’ll be able to overcome with practice?”

I really had no idea.

“Potentially, Sir.”

“Well,” he noted dryly. “At the very least, walls should prove no obstacle to you.”

“Yes, Sir,” I agreed.

Nor physical restraints of any kind, I mused, unless there was a material that proved to be impervious to my power. So far, that included only living things. Everything else — including the formerly-but-no-longer-living — was apparently fair game.

(Of course, there were more ways to trap a person than physically chaining or locking them up. But I didn’t want to think about that. Just like I didn’t want to think about what was waiting for me at the end of this week of training. If I let my thoughts drift too far in that direction it started to feel like the walls were closing in. Even when I was outside. It started to feel like a hand around my throat. So I wouldn’t let myself think about it. I would focus on the training. That was the only thing that mattered right now.)

“Let’s move on.”

“Sir?” I asked, trying not to wonder if I was going to be punished for my failure with the concrete. (There really wasn’t any point in worrying. Either I would be or I wouldn’t. There wasn’t anything I could about it.)

“Try the metal now.”

_Finally!_

“Yes, Sir.”

Anticipation warmed me as I reached out to touch the block of steel. My skin made contact _(iron, carbon, chromium, nickel…)_ , and the structure lit up in my mind. It was just as beautiful as I had anticipated. And the potential… The concrete had felt like it was fighting me every step of the way, but this? This was like **breathing**. I made it ripple and flow like water, form abstract shapes, and generally obey my slightest whim. It was the lattice structure, I realised. I could shift the bonds around without actually breaking them. That was what made this so easy.

Out of nowhere, a thought came to me. _I could make such beautiful things with this._

“Good.”

Dad’s voice broke through my thoughts, snapping me out of my near-euphoria. I was shocked to realise that, for a few brief moments, I’d actually forgotten what the purpose of all this was. It was just… I’d just been having fun playing with it. But all traces of that were chased away by horror at the fact that I’d allowed myself to become dangerously distracted.

_Fuck._

I really couldn’t do that. I needed to focus. It didn’t matter how tired I was, or how much I hurt, (or, improbably, how much fun I was having), I needed to keep it together.

But Dad sounded pleased as he continued, “It seems like you have an affinity for metal. We can definitely use that.”

I wasn’t sure it was a specific affinity so much as the fact that metal was significantly more ductile than concrete. But I wasn’t going to disagree. I was just happy I got to play with the metal some more.

* * * * *

“Again.”

Lance and circled each other warily. Well, I was wary; Lance was confident. Maybe a little too confident, I thought. I hoped. I’d managed to refine my focus, allowing my awareness of chemical structures to simply overlay the input from my mundane senses, rather than displacing it. This, I hoped, meant I wasn’t going to be too distracted to fight. Lord knew it was certainly about damn time for me to get a little payback. So. Time to get this show on the road.

I was just a little less well-co-ordinated than usual, my aim just a little off, my reflexes just a little slow. Exactly as they’d been during the previous iterations of this little test. The difference was that this time it was a ruse. I knew I was technically supposed to be fighting to the best of my ability, but, well… I really wanted to make this count. Anyway, playing possum to mislead an enemy was a perfectly valid tactic. Lance launched a flurry of blows towards me. I blocked them all, but allowed myself to be pushed back a little. Any moment now…

He snapped out a right jab, hard and fast, aimed squarely at my chest. Would’ve been a nasty one if it had hit, but I was already moving, passing easily to the outside of the strike and shoving his arm towards his body, I slammed my right palm heel into his chin and he reeled at the impact, but I wasn’t finished there. Pivoting on my left foot, I lashed out with my right in a roundhouse kick, smacking my shin into his stomach hard enough to make him crumple.

He hit the mat with a very satisfying thump.

“Stop.”

Dad’s command brought me to a halt, and I realised I’d started to head over to Lance’s prone form. I hadn’t actually been planning on kicking him while he was down but, well, I realised that I hadn’t necessarily been in my most rational frame of mind a moment ago. I returned to the starting mark, back in a ready position. Lance got slowly to his feet, shooting an ugly look my way. I… would like to claim I was gracious in victory, but I may have smirked quite obnoxiously at him in response. Petty? Yes. Vindictive? Definitely. Immensely fucking satisfying? Like you wouldn’t believe.

“A definite improvement,” Dad said, and my smirk turned into a more genuine smile. That faded, however,as he continued in a hard tone, “Although you broke the rules with that chin strike.” He crossed the short distance towards me and put his hand on my shoulder, pressing his thumb hard against the tender skin there. I forced myself to remain perfectly still, waiting to see what he would do. He tightened his grip ever so slightly… and then let me go again. Just a warning, this time. I stifled a sigh of relief. “Be more careful in future,” he admonished.

“Yes, Sir.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see Lance sneering at me. Before I could turn to glare back at him, though, his expression went suddenly blank. Dad must have glanced his way.

“Let’s make sure that wasn’t a fluke, shall we?” Well, great. Lance was definitely going to be back on his guard now. And he was pissed off with me, to boot. Oh well. It wasn’t like I wasn’t expecting that. I readied myself, waiting for the command. “Again.”

I was really starting to hate that word.

* * * * *

“Again.”

I gritted my teeth and obeyed, sending my power through the block of steel, willing it to move, goddammit, despite the way my nerve endings fizzed and popped with pain. Bonds shifted around each other, and the bulk of its mass flowed up and over, breaking like a wave over the target. Which was useful, which was progress, which was great — if perhaps a little slower than I would like — but it wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

I sighed softly and pulled the steel back, reforming the block. I forced myself to stand up straight despite the fact that we’d been doing this for hours and, what with one thing and another, I’d barely slept at all last night. Or the night before. I wasn’t stupid enough, however, to ask for a break.

“Sorry, Sir,” I said, wincing inside as I tried to think of a way to tell him I didn’t think I could do this. “I don’t think my power works that way.”

I tensed, but the only response was a noncommittal, “Hmm.” I waited for further instructions. After thinking for a moment, Dad noted, “So. Not true kinesis, and not matter creation. Plus, you need constant skin contact with a material to manipulate it.”

“Yes, Sir.” I stifled a brief impulse to apologise. I wasn’t going to apologise for the way my power worked. My power was fucking awesome. I just had to figure out how to use it effectively in combat. Luckily, I’d been giving the matter some thought. “What if I used metal batons, Sir? I could reshape them as necessary to improve reach and accuracy, which would give me an advantage in hand to hand.”

Not the most creative application of my power, but it had the advantage of being simple, and something I was reasonably sure I could manage with my current level of control. Plus, I already had the hand to hand skills.

He considered a moment. “Show me.”

With a thought, I detached two pieces of metal from the larger mass and formed them into weapons, one for each hand. Taking the time make sure to the batons were balanced properly and the grips fit my hands, I took up position and launched a series of strikes on the training dummy. The batons were actually pretty easy to reshape quickly and accurately; much more so than the larger block of metal.

I looked towards Dad, relieved when he nodded.

“Practice using the batons with Lance,” he said.

“Now, Sir?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lance look up from his schoolwork.

“Later.” Lance returned his attention to the book he was studying. “For the moment, make a knife.” I reshaped one of the batons into a simple combat knife. “Run through a basic knife drill with the dummy, but try to reshape the blade to maximise the damage as you strike.”

I thought I knew what he was aiming for. I took up position, and started the drill, stabbing and slashing at the target. It took a couple of attempts to get the hang of it, but then it clicked and…

_Oh my God._

That was… a big hole. A very big hole. If that had been a person… (No. I wouldn’t think about that. I couldn’t think about that. This was just training, that’s all. Just exercises. Just wood and cloth and padding. I wasn’t hurting anyone.) I realised I’d stopped dead, staring at the gaping rent in what was supposed to be the dummy’s chest. I quickly moved back into a ready position, awaiting further orders.

“Very good, Astrid.” Dad sounded pleased. “That has definite potential.”

The approval buoyed up my tired muscles and weary mind, helping me stand just that little bit straighter, pushing just a little bit of the fog from my thoughts.

“Thank you, Sir.” I hesitated for a moment, and then asked, “Do you want me to try to fix the damage?”

He gave me a curious look. “By all means.”

I wasn’t entirely sure I would be able to. It seemed that with my power, as with so many things, it was easier to destroy than to create. But in theory, it should just be a case of forming bonds between the pieces, and I knew I could do that. It was good practice. (And if it meant that I didn’t have to see that gaping wound — no, that hole in its torso — a moment longer, then so much the better.)

I absently reshaped the weapons into metal bands around my forearms to free up my hands (it wasn’t like I couldn’t forge them again just as easily, after all) and put the dummy back together as best as I could, using my power to bond the fragments and pieces into place. When I was done, I studied my handiwork critically, both visually and with my power. It was little more than a crude patch job, and I could feel that the damaged area was weak compared to the rest of it, but it had worked. Maybe it was something I would get better at with practice. (I liked the idea of being able to fix things almost as much as I liked the idea of being able to make things.)

I turned back to see what Dad wanted me to try now. He was studying the metal bands around my forearms, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Form those into cables about a metre and a half in length and…” He considered for a moment. “Let’s say half a centimetre thick.”

“Yes, Sir.”

A trivial exercise of my power.

“Now, strike the target.”

I’d never really trained with anything like this, but an order was an order. I took up position and did my best to obey. My first few attempts were… honestly kind of pathetic, either missing completely, or hitting with negligible force. But then I started to get the hang of it a little. It helped that, thanks to my power, I knew exactly where the cables were at all times, relative to myself. And I could use a combination of power and perfectly ordinary momentum to…

The cables lashed out, one at the head, one at the torso, each hitting with an audible smack. My aim was still off, but as this was only a proof of concept, I hoped that wouldn’t earn me too much censure.

“That will do for a start,” Dad said, nodding. “Of course, we’ll have to work on your technique. Fortunately, I have a few ideas for how to improve your aim…”

* * * * *

My wire whipped out, slicing through the air towards the target. It only narrowly missed, but a narrow miss was still a miss and the golf ball smacked me hard on the thigh. I glared at Lance, resisting the urge to rub the sore spot. He hefted another golf ball threateningly, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Concentrate,” Dad told me, sternly.

“Yes, Sir.”

It was a real challenge not to grit my teeth. I was concentrating. I just wasn’t fast enough. Not yet, anyway. I’d just have to be better.

“Again.”

I’d have to be better **now**.

Lance threw the ball, my wires — both of them this time — lashed out… and I knocked the fucking golf ball out of the air. Ha! Lance looked disappointed.

_Bastard._

“Good,” Dad said. “Let’s try two in quick succession this time. Begin.”

Well, at least he didn’t say ‘again’.

* * * * *

“Sharper, Sir?”

I eyed my father warily, trying to gauge his mood. He didn’t seem angry with me. More… contemplative. With perhaps just a touch of impatience at my request for clarity. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand what he was asking, not really. I just… I wanted to be certain.

(I didn’t want to understand.)

“Surely,” he said, somewhat bitingly. “That isn’t such a difficult concept to grasp. Can you give them cutting edges?”

Could I…? Well, yes, of course I could. But…

My stomach fluttered uneasily, and it felt like I had a lump in my throat. I had to fight to keep my expression blank and my voice level.

“Yes, Sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

I reshaped my wires again. It felt oddly natural to do so, and a small part of my mind felt amazement that I’d only had these abilities for a few short days. Right now, it almost felt like they’d been a part of me my whole life.

“Finished, Sir,” I informed Dad, carefully testing out the wires’ new balance and profile. They felt different. They felt dangerous, in a way that they hadn’t, quite, before.

(Was this what he’d had in mind since the moment he first suggested wires?)

“Run through the drills again. Remember: don’t just aim to strike the target, aim to strike through the target.”

A basic principle, and one I was already more than familiar with. Why, then, did my heart start to beat a little faster in my chest?

“Yes, Sir.”

I did as I was told. My wires whipped through the air and bit deep into the target, carving gashes and lines into the padded frame. That… was quite a mess.

“Good,” Dad said. “Now try the same thing you’ve been practicing with the knife.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me to combine the techniques, but it seemed so obvious when he said it that way. So very obvious.

(And I really was so very, very stupid.)

“Yes, Sir.”

I readied myself, and struck.

The training dummy flew apart under my assault. Pieces scattered every which way, and I wasn’t sure all the kings horses and all the kings men were putting that mess back together again. I wasn’t even sure I could fix it with my power.

(I didn’t want to think about other things that couldn’t be fixed.)

The drill wasn’t technically over, but the target had been obliterated. With extreme prejudice.

(There was a roaring in my ears, and I couldn’t quite seem to catch my breath.)

I returned to a ready position and awaited further orders.

(Cold settling over me like a shroud, slivers of ice lodging in my heart.)

Like the good soldier I was supposed to be.

“Excellent work, Astrid,” Dad said, lightly brushing one hand over my head in the way he only did when I’d really exceeded expectations. But neither the praise, nor the gentle touch seemed to be able to reach through the strange numbness that had settled over me.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said automatically, unable to tear my eyes away from the remains of the training dummy.

_God. If that had been… If that was…_

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything. Just wood, cloth and padding. No one was hurt. No one was… was **killed**.

(Ripped to shreds, torn to pieces by wires that weren’t quite monofilament, but were pretty damn close. Pretty fucking lethal either way.)

Except, that was what he was training me to do, wasn’t it? To kill people. To kill people with my power. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t known that. I’d known it all along. He’d never made a fucking secret of it. But I… I couldn’t let myself see it. Couldn’t let myself admit what it was we were doing here. I knew it was stupid, I knew it was childish, I knew it was weak, but I just couldn’t face it. I needed some space. Some room to breathe. To not think about what was waiting for me on the other side of this.

(If I ever made it out the other side of this.)

But now? I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. And, once again — more and fucking more these days, it seemed — I just didn’t know what to do. Belatedly, I realised that Dad was saying something else, and I forced myself to snap out of my stupid little panic attack and pay attention. Because whatever I decided to do, I had to get through this first, and I really, really, really didn’t want to give him a reason to have to discipline me again. So I would just have to get my shit together, suck it up and cope until I bought myself a chance to think things through properly.

“…really just a matter of improving technique at this point,” he was saying, looking at me expectantly.

Oh God. What had I missed?

“Yes, Sir,” I hedged. It must have been the right response, because he smiled at me and the expression was almost kindly.

“Let’s start by building up the number of wires you can control. Try adding another two for now.”

I hesitated for a moment. “Bladed or blunted, Sir?”

“Bladed, I think,” he said, and stroked my hair again. “After all, you really do seem to have a talent for this.”

(I told myself I didn’t feel a thrill of pride at the praise, that it didn’t make me love him just that little bit more. But then, I’d always been really fucking good at lying to myself. At least until I couldn’t do it any longer.)

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, numbly.

I followed orders. I hit my target. I was a good soldier.

(And, somewhere deep inside, I thought I could hear someone sobbing.)


	6. Claustrophobia 1.06

I wiped condensation off the bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection as I towelled off my damp hair. A hollow-eyed stranger stared back at me.  
  
Like before, I scrutinised my features, driven by a vague, inarticulate desperation to seek in them something that I shouldn’t want to find. Unlike last time, however, what I was looking for came easily to me.  
  
(Maybe certain kinds of denial just came easier than others.)  
  
My hair and theirs was nothing alike. It wasn’t just the colour, it was the texture; wavy, rather than straight. Even damp, it was obvious that it couldn’t possibly have come from Gavin. As for my eyes, describing both mine and theirs as ‘brown’ was misleading to the point of outright mendacity. Sure, it was technically true. Technically. But that was as close as it got. Plus, the shape was completely different. I didn’t know how I could even have thought for a moment that they might be considered similar.  
  
The rest of my features… No. Even aside from all the other differences I’d catalogued during my previous bout of insecure stupidity, I, unlike them, had actual cheekbones. With freckles, no less. Faint ones, but still. I doubted their skin even knew what a freckle **was** , let alone a proper suntan. Anyway, it didn’t matter whether you were talking profile or head on, my face was nothing like theirs.  
  
It was almost with dread that I allowed myself to consider the one real point of similarity I’d managed to dredge up: my frame. I **was** tall, it was true. There was no denying that. But… Mom had been tall. I didn’t have a picture to hand, but I didn’t need to. I could see her in my mind’s eye as clearly as if she’d been standing there in front of me.  
  
(I didn’t have any memories of her from when she was alive, of course. I’d been far too young when she was… When she died. But Dad had pictures, and he’d always made sure I knew what she looked like.)  
  
So. She’d been tall, yes. Taller than me, even. Not quite as stocky, though: she’d apparently tended towards a more wiry kind of strength. I searched for a word, and came up with ‘athletic.’ It fit her, I thought. Me, not so much: I was a marathon runner, not a sprinter, built for strength and endurance, not speed. I supposed I must have got that from my biological father. Like my eyes, I supposed. Mom’s were pale; blue or grey, depending on the light. So mine **must** have come from him.  
  
Whoever he was. Had been? Was he still alive? Was he out there, somewhere? Did he have another family? Other children?  
  
(Had he wanted me? Had he even known of my existence? Did he know what had happened to Mom?)  
  
(Did he mourn my mother, like Gavin mourned her even now, a decade and a half later?)  
  
(Did he ever mourn for me?)  
  
Whatever. It didn’t matter.  
  
This was stupid. **Really** stupid.  
  
Dad and Lance were my family, no matter what our genetics said. And certainly regardless of how much or how little we physically resembled each other.  
  
But I…  
  
I wasn’t **like** them. I wasn’t a… a killer. I **wasn’t**. And I guessed that meant Lance was right. I just wasn’t ready for this, not now and maybe not ever. Maybe I just wasn’t strong enough for this life — **our** life — at all.  
  
But, the thing of it was, I kind of, sort of thought that…  
  
I really didn’t want to be.  
  
And I had absolutely no idea at all what to do about that.  
  
They were family. They were all I had. They were the only constants in my whole, rootless life. I couldn’t just turn on them; couldn’t betray them. The only reason I was even **alive** right now was because of Dad. I owed him everything. If I was strong, it was because of him, because of the training that he put me through day after day after day. He pushed me to be better.  
  
I was who I was because of him.  
  
(I was broken because of him, and I wasn’t sure that I would ever be whole again.)  
  
So I just went round and round in circles: no clear route forward and no way to retreat, stuck in a holding pattern without an exit strategy. And with no easy answer, no viable solution, all I could do was fall back on the habits of my lifetime.  
  
(Endure.)  
  
I’d focus on getting through this week.  
  
(Survive.)  
  
It was the only thing I **could** do right now.  
  
(Don’t give up, no matter how much it hurts.)  
  
What was waiting for me at the end of it was something I was simply not equipped to deal with at this point in time.  
  
(I might break, but I could choose how I broke.)  
  
So I’d deal with the only part of the problem I could actually solve.  
  
(And then I’d pull myself back together again.)  
  
Training. Mastering my power. Doing what I was told.  
  
(Just like I’d always done before.)  
  
And hope to God that I could figure something out before the time came to choose.  
  
(Pray that there would still be enough left of my soul in the end to be worth saving.)  
  
Somewhere along the way, in the privacy of my own mind, I’d started thinking of this time out at the cabin as ‘hell week.’ The term had never seemed more appropriate. But that was okay, that was alright, that was **just fine**.  
  
I’d been through hell before, after all, and I knew exactly what to do.  
  
When you were going through hell, the trick was to just keep going.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I sprinted through the clearing and hell followed right along with me, a whirling cloud of razor-edged metal that served as sword and shield both, obedient to my every whim. A flick of my wrists, a brief thought, and cutting wires hurtled out towards my target.  
  
I may not have had kinesis, but momentum combined with near-instant reshaping meant I could still pack a hell of punch.  
  
The target never stood a chance.  
  
I barely slowed down, jinking right before the pieces even hit the ground, reeling my wires back in so I could fling them out at the next target. Or, rather, targets: two of them this time, at slightly different angles.  
  
Didn’t matter. They both went down.  
  
Movement from the left: projectiles speeding my way, but two thicker, blocking cables whipped around, neatly knocking them from the air.  
  
I had to pick up speed now: there was a jump coming up, and it was just a little too far for me to make it under my own steam. Luckily, I had other options. As I pushed off, a pair of support lines shot out to wrap around an anchor point on the other side — a tree that looked like it could last another thousand years; a rock that could probably beat it by thousands more — and **pulled** , bonds compressing to yank me further upward and forward than I could have managed with muscles alone.  
  
For a brief, glorious moment, it felt like I was flying.  
  
But then gravity smacked me back down again, and the landing was always, **always** so much harder than the take-off. I hit the ground a little too hard, a little too fast, had to let momentum carry me forward into a roll so I didn’t end up sprawling flat on my face. A little rough around the edges, but it worked. I wobbled a little as I came back to my feet — I really had to practice this more — but I gathered myself and pushed off again, taking the forest trail at a run.  
  
Nearly there, now.  
  
Distantly, I wondered how much time was left on the clock, but I pushed the thought aside. It was a distraction I didn’t need. The finish line might have been just up ahead, but that didn’t by any stretch of the imagination mean that I was safe. Not by a long shot. In some ways, the home stretch was the most dangerous part of the whole obstacle course. Dad did like to-  
  
Movement!  
  
A figure charged towards me. I quickly blunted my wires, sent one whipping out at eye-level. Even though Lance was wearing a motorcycle helmet, he still brought an arm up to block. People were predictable like that. I wrapped my wire around his arm and yanked it back, pulling with the metal’s strength, not my own, making him stumble. I closed the distance between us as he tried to regain his balance, letting my wires part so I could slam a metal-wrapped fist against his solar plexus. He was wearing biker leathers, but those only did so much to soften the force of the blow. He folded, retching, and I left him to his misery, turning and sprinting for the finish line.  
  
So close, now. Almost there…  
  
Another projectile flew towards me, coming in fast. I blocked instinctively, but as soon as it hit my cables it exploded in a cloud of choking, blinding dust. (Flour?) I coughed and spluttered, my eyes streaming, my forward momentum checked into a graceless stumble as I was rendered blind and breathless. For a brief, awful eternity, I couldn’t **focus**.  
  
But I had to.  
  
Failure was not an option.  
  
Failure would be punished.  
  
I would not, **could not** fail.  
  
I cleared my eyes of dust with a thought (it didn’t help with the immediate irritation, of course, but it would hopefully help them recover faster), sent my wires questing forth with another. Fervently praying that my sense of direction wouldn’t let me down, I set out as quickly as I dared, making my way towards my destination.  
  
It should be just… over…  
  
My wires hit something. I didn’t know what — mapping my surroundings in fine detail with wires was still way beyond me — but then there was movement and my senses screamed ‘incoming!’ Obeying my instincts, I threw caution to the winds, ducked to one side and just pelted my way through what I was sure (what I **really hoped** ) were the last few metres to my target. I rapidly blinked my stinging, watering eyes, trying to clear my vision just enough to check whether I was right.  
  
Come on… Come on…  
  
“Well done.”  
  
Yes!  
  
My eyes were sore, I couldn’t stop coughing, and I was so exhausted that my legs would have trembled if I’d have let them, but the rush of triumph (and relief) was so powerful that I just didn’t care. I’d done it. I’d reached the end.  
  
(I hadn’t failed.)  
  
I came to attention as Dad strode towards me, pulling my wires and cables back to a guard position without even really needing to think about it. He was smiling.  
  
“You efficiently took out all the targets and completed the course well within the time limit, despite the distractions,” he noted, and I felt a thrill of pride. (My stomach twisted a little uneasily at the thought of what those targets represented, but I ignored it. I had to. I had to keep going.) “However,” he continued, his smile fading. I felt a shiver of apprehension. “Your aerial work was sloppy at best. You definitely need to practice using your cables for mobility.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I agreed. Not that such practice would really be a hardship. I was looking forward to it. However, Dad hadn’t finished yet.  
  
“Plus the flour bomb clearly knocked you thoroughly off your stride. You need to be more alert in future. What if that had been something worse? An incendiary device, perhaps?” He held my gaze, and I tried to figure out just how displeased he was right now. “On the battlefield, you will often have to make split-second decisions based on limited information. It is **crucial** that you be able to make the right ones.”  
  
But… how was I supposed to know whether or not any given projectile was going to blow up in my face? It’s not like I could really make out the details when everything was happening so quickly. I mean, I had to try to intercept them anyway, so what could I possibly do differently? Move more, I guess? Try to figure out which were bombs (however the fuck I was supposed to do **that** ), and attempt to contain them in metal?  
  
All of this ran through my head in a rapid-fire jumble of annoyance and disappointment and anxiety, but all I said out loud was: “Yes, Sir.”  
  
What else could I say? I was hardly going to complain that it wasn’t fair. I knew better than that. **Life** wasn’t fair, and war even less so.  
  
I saw Lance making his way towards us. My vision was still a little blurry, but he looked like he had one arm wrapped around his middle. I had thumped him a good one, I supposed.  
  
“Still,” Dad said, drawing my attention away from my asshole brother. “You’ve improved a great deal since we started.” His smile returned. “Good work, Astrid.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir.”  
  
I found myself smiling back.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“What’s wrong?”  
  
Dad’s voice was sharp, the words making me startle. I looked up, but his attention was on Lance, not me.  
  
The three of us were having a late lunch. Dad was cooking, the heavenly aroma of frying bacon wafting from the pan to fill the air, making my stomach rumble a little in anticipation. He made the **best** fry-ups. (Yeah, they were traditionally a breakfast thing, but he’d asked me what I wanted and this was it. Apparently, he was feeling indulgent. At least, he had been then…)  
  
I turned to study Lance more closely, absently setting the last of the cutlery down on the table. He’d been been bending to retrieve some plates from the dresser, and now he straightened, placing them carefully on the counter top.  
  
“Nothing, Sir,” Lance said. Now that Dad had drawn my attention to it, he did seem to be moving a little stiffly. Dread suddenly flared within me.  
  
“Lance,” Dad said, a warning note in his voice.  
  
Lance came to attention. “Minor bruising, Sir,” he said. “Nothing important.”  
  
I wasn’t sure whether or not it was just my imagination, but his gaze seemed to flicker briefly in my direction. My apprehension deepened.  
  
Dad turned the stove off and crossed the few steps towards Lance.  
  
“Show me,” he ordered.  
  
After the briefest of hesitations, Lance’s shoulders slumped briefly and he pulled up his shirt. My breath hissed through my teeth at the sight of the livid bruise that spilled over his torso like dark wine. Shit. I’d done **that**? How hard had I hit him?  
  
(I hoped he was okay.)  
  
I was going to be in so much trouble.  
  
Dad’s face was unreadable, but his hands twitched, ever so slightly, and my heart sank. “Go and sit down,” he told Lance. “I want to examine you properly.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure nothing’s broken, Sir,” Lance said, as he pulled his shirt back down and moved to obey.  
  
‘Pretty sure.’  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Better safe than suffering a punctured lung and drowning slowly in your own blood.”  
  
Lance paled visibly, and I rather suspected that I did, too.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” he said, settling onto the sofa.  
  
Dad turned his attention to me, and I quailed a little under the hard look in his eyes. “You. Fetch an ice pack. And the first aid kit, just in case. Then you can finish making lunch.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
Thankfully, none of Lance’s ribs turned out to be so much as cracked in the end, at least as far as Dad could tell. I’d just given him a very nasty bruise. Even so, guilt and self-recrimination (with more than a little fear for spice) made a particularly bitter brew.  
  
It was almost a relief when Dad turned his steely gaze on me and said: “Go to the training room and warm up. I’ll join you there when Lance and I are done eating.” Dammit! He smiled thinly, and the disappointment I felt over the fact that I, apparently, was not going to get to eat just yet flew right out of my head. “It seems we need to have a discussion about the appropriate use of force during training exercises.” His eyes narrowed. “Another one.”  
  
Well, shit.  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
My stomach protested, but I didn’t dare dawdle. Maybe it was just psychological, but I thought I could still smell the bacon as I hit the mat and started limbering up.  
  
It smelled **really** good. I’d been looking forward to that fry up, goddamnit! I tried not to think about it.  
  
Anyway, I thought dismally, I had no one but myself to blame. I really should have been more careful. And I couldn’t reasonably be angry with Lance for ratting me out this time. He hadn’t said a thing until Dad questioned him, and even I wasn’t a big enough bitch to blame him for obeying **that** order.  
  
Apparently, lunch was a leisurely affair. By the time Dad entered the training room, I’d long finished warming up and was running through various drills and exercises, trying to relearn how to properly calibrate my blows.  
  
I stopped and came to attention as Dad joined me on the mat.  
  
“What did you do wrong?” he demanded, without preamble.  
  
“I failed to properly account for the force multiplier my power afforded me, Sir.”  
  
With hindsight, it was obvious. I was used to throwing punches. I **wasn’t** used to throwing punches while wearing what were effectively knuckledusters. Not yet, anyway. I **had** pulled my blow, I just… hadn’t pulled it enough. Tiredness, adrenaline, determination not to fail… Undoubtedly all these things had contributed, but ultimately it didn’t matter.  
  
I’d fucked up.  
  
And there were no excuses for failure.  
  
Dad regarded me impassively. Behind him, I saw Lance wander through and lean against the doorframe, watching the pair of us. He was idly eating a piece of bacon.  
  
Son of a **bitch**!  
  
I must have reacted, maybe glared or twitched a little, because Dad glanced over in that direction. He didn’t say anything about Lance being there, however, which I guessed meant he was fine with having an audience. Great. This just got better and better. Pain, I could handle. Humiliation, however, was fucking **annoying**.  
  
“Lose the metal,” Dad commanded. With a certain amount of reluctance, I banished it to the corner of the room. My arms felt oddly naked without the wires and cables coiled around them, almost too light. When did the constant weight and presence start to feel normal? Had it really been not quite a week since I’d triggered? I pushed those pointless thoughts aside and, bereft of my wires, returned to my position on the mat. Dad nodded brusquely. “Let’s spar.”  
  
‘Spar.’ Ha. Like I actually had a chance against him.  
  
We circled each other. Dad seemed to be letting me take the initiative, at least for now, so I launched some cautious strikes; more probing attacks than anything serious. I wasn’t sure how he was going to play this. For the moment, he appeared content to keep this to a desultory exchange of blows; nothing that really connected in any way that mattered. It was starting to make me nervous. I concentrated on making sure my form was as close to perfect as I could get it, keeping my guard up and staying alert.  
  
When was the other shoe going to drop?  
  
“This marks the second time you’ve broken the rules this week. That I know about.”  
  
He must have been including the chin strike from the other day.  
  
His words were quiet, but I felt a shiver run down my spine. Before I could even figure out how to respond to that, he suddenly launched a flurry of blows that I only barely managed to block or evade, resulting in several stinging impacts against my forearms.  
  
I was honestly surprised he was still taking it so easy on me.  
  
Cautiously, I stepped up my own attacks a little.  
  
“Strength is important, no doubt, but so is control. In some ways, it’s almost more important. Without control, you cannot use your strength effectively.”  
  
A blink, and he was inside my guard, my side stinging from a blow I barely even saw coming. If he’d wanted to follow up, he could have taken me down as easily as drawing breath, but instead he withdrew again, gave me the chance to pull myself together. I responded with cautious aggression, lashing out with a kick, but prepared to pull back if I had to. He blocked it effortlessly, twisting with the motion and shoving so that, if I’d been just a touch less cautious, I would have lost my balance.  
  
“Actions have consequences,” he continued. “And it is imperative that they have only the consequences you intend.”  
  
Not allowing me to disengage, he pressed the attack, forcing me onto the defensive.  
  
“Killing should be a deliberate action. A choice. It should **not** be the result of mere carelessness.”  
  
I flinched a little, caught off guard. The next thing I knew, I was reeling from the double impact of strikes to the sternum and stomach. I tried to recover, but Dad swept my legs out from under me, sending me crashing to the mat.  
  
But the punches were were barely even hard enough to bruise, let alone take my breath away. And he backed off to give me time to get back to my feet, to get my guard back up again.  
  
Apparently, he was still taking it easy on me.  
  
“I’m disappointed in you, girl,” he said gravely, and that, honestly, hurt more than the blows and the fall combined. “I know I’ve taught you better than to be **careless**.”  
  
“Sorry, Sir,” I muttered.  
  
“Don’t be sorry,” he snapped. “Be **better**.”  
  
He lunged towards me again, keeping the pressure on, not giving me time to think. Striking back was completely out of the question. All I could do was try (and fail) not to get hit. By the time he let up again, I was breathing hard, my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me was tempted to see how Lance was reacting to this (smirking, probably) — but I dared not take my eyes off Dad.  
  
I wasn’t optimistic enough to believe he’d finished with me yet.  
  
“Now, more than ever, you have to learn control. I had **hoped** you’d already mastered the concept but, well.” He smiled, and it was like being doused in ice water. “It seems like another demonstration is in order.”  
  
The last word was barely out of his mouth before his fist flew towards me. Anticipating the blow, I just barely blocked it, snapping out a punch of my own. The next thing I knew, he had my wrist in an iron grip. I tried to twist away, but he didn’t even budge, keeping me effortlessly in place.  
  
“Control,” he said, his tone calm and measured, despite my struggles. “Means that you can choose whether to do **this**.” He squeezed lightly, hard enough for me to feel it, but nothing too bad. It probably wouldn’t even bruise much. “Or **this**.” A slight twist, a certain amount of pressure on the right spot, and he almost put me on my knees, the nerves of my arm on fire with agony. “Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes. Sir.”  
  
My words emerged through gritted teeth. It wasn’t just the pain, or even mainly the pain. This was… It was **embarrassing**. I wasn’t a fucking child! And Lance was **right there**. Watching all of this. Laughing at me, no doubt.  
  
I braced my legs and shifted position slightly, trying to ease the pressure on my wrist. I could feel the fibres of the mat beneath my feet starting to flex, responding to some subconscious impulse of my power, but I reined it in. I didn’t get the feeling that turning my power against Dad would go down at all well right now.  
  
(Even though a part of me really, really wanted to.)  
  
“We’ll see about that,” he said, and abruptly released me.  
  
I moved as if to spring away from him, only to pivot and snap out a kick instead. I was actually surprised when my heel smacked solidly into his chest. For all the good it did me. Nevertheless, I followed up with a series of punches — all perfectly **controlled** , thank you very fucking much. I think Dad actually seemed amused at me as he knocked them aside, striking back almost lazily.  
  
“Control,” he said again, and I moved to disengage, hoping to get out of grappling range before the next ‘demonstration’. He immediately switched from ‘lazy’ to lightning fast, and once again I ended up frantically trying to avoid getting hit. “Is the difference between this.” He swept a light kick towards my leg, the impact making me stumble off balance. I recovered quickly — he allowed me to recover — and tried to put some distance between us, trying to figure out a strategy that would let me avoid getting knocked on my ass. “And this.”  
  
Pain was the next thing I knew, my back and shoulders slamming into the mat hard enough to make me bite my tongue. Which was actually a good thing, because that was the only reason I managed not to make a sound. Part of me — a part I was deeply, deeply ashamed of — just wanted to lay there for a moment and figure out how to breathe without whimpering. I ignored it and got to my feet, deliberately meeting Dad’s gaze.  
  
“I believe I understand, Sir.” My voice was as flat and level as I could make it.  
  
“Do you?” he said. I bristled a little at the outright skepticism in his voice, but I kept it off my face. “Do you understand the difference between-“ He moved suddenly, lunging forward so fast that that he was right there in front of me, well inside my guard, before I’d barely even started trying to block. But there was no impact, no pain, and I didn’t understand why until he said: “This?” And I realised that his hand was hovering mere millimetres from my cheek. I froze, my eyes widening in shock, and a tight smile just barely curved his lips. Moving slowly this time, deliberately, he drew back. Belatedly, I shifted back into a guard position. “And,” he said. I braced myself, trying to figure out where the next blow would come from, trying to stay ready for anything-  
  
But his fist slammed into my solar plexus, driving the air out of me, doubling me over as nausea twisted my stomach like a pretzel and I fought desperately to avoid throwing up. It was touch and go for a moment, but somehow I managed it. The same way I somehow managed to stay on my feet. “This?” Dad said, quietly.  
  
I guessed it was fitting, given what I’d done to earn this little demonstration. Anyway, Dad probably hadn’t even hit me even close to as hard as I’d hit Lance. He was just making a point.  
  
I made myself take a breath. And another one. I wanted to wrap my arms around my middle and just crumple to the ground. Instead, I forced myself to uncurl from my hunched over position, standing up straight. I met Dad’s gaze and slowly, deliberately, moved back into a combat stance.  
  
“Control, Sir,” I said quietly.  
  
For a brief moment, what looked like a genuine smile flickered over his face, but it was there and gone again far too quickly for me to be certain of what I saw.  
  
“Yes,” he said. He studied me for a few moments — just long enough for me to wonder if he was waiting for a response — and then snapped: “Stand down.” I obeyed automatically, my body moving into a resting stance without any conscious decision on my part. I held position as he crossed the mat to stand in front of me.  
  
“Control,” he said quietly, and I tensed inside, because this clearly wasn’t over yet, and I had a horrible, horrible feeling I knew what was coming. “Allows you….”  
  
Keeping his eyes on mine, he reached out towards me, and I could have tried to fight, could have tried to **run** , but it was like my whole body was locked into place, my muscles paralysed, leaving me unable to do anything other than stand there helplessly as he put his hand on my throat.  
  
(My power tried to flare again, but I reined it back in ruthlessly. I had to stay in control. I **had** to.)  
  
“To choose between this.”  
  
Gently, so gently I could barely even feel his touch on my skin, he wrapped his hand around my neck, just letting it rest there for a moment or two. Panic filled my veins, driving my heart to beat faster and faster so that it pounded almost painfully in my chest. My eyes felt like saucers, and my pulse must have been practically thudding against his fingers; he must have known exactly how scared I was right now. (He must have known just how very weak I really was.) And I might almost have pleaded with him not to do this, not again, if I wasn’t clinging so desperately to what remained of my pride and self-respect.  
  
If I hadn’t decided long ago that I would never, ever beg.  
  
If there hadn’t been a witness to my shame.  
  
I could see Lance, in my peripheral vision, still standing there in the doorway. He wasn’t laughing at me, though. If anything, he looked almost sick. His whole body was rigid with tension.  
  
(Like I’d said: too much shared history. Try to cut one of us and both of us might well end up bleeding.)  
  
I forced myself to meet Dad’s eyes, to control my face to blankness, to keep as tight a fucking leash on my power as I could.  
  
(I would get through this. And I would do it **without** losing control.)  
  
Anticipation made the next few moments seem to stretch for an eternity. When Dad finally spoke, the words were barely louder than a whisper.  
  
“And this.”  
  
He tightened his grip.


	7. Claustrophobia 1.07

“Goddammit!”  
  
I slammed my bare fist into the target, almost welcoming the pain as the shock of the impact jarred my still-sore arm. (Anything to distract myself from the ghostly imprint of fingers around my throat.) God knew I deserved it. I had **powers** now, for fuck’s sake.  
  
So why the hell was I still so fucking **weak**?  
  
Leashing my temper as best as I could, I made sure to tone down my next strikes a little. The padding wasn’t that thick, after all, and I really didn’t want to fuck up my wrist any more. I **had** to be able to fight. Hell week wasn’t over yet, after all.  
  
Just then, my train of thought was derailed the sound of footsteps. I tensed, metal bristling without my conscious command.  
  
“Having fun?” Lance asked lightly.  
  
I shot my asshole brother an unimpressed look over my shoulder as he ambled over to lean against a tree.  
  
“It’s a laugh riot,” I informed him flatly, and turned my attention back to the other dummy. After Dad had finished with me, he’d ordered me to spend some time running through basic training exercises. I was supposed to practice both with and without the aid of my power, to get a better feel for what the difference was.  
  
‘At least you can put the training dummies back together again if you break them,’ he’d said, dryly, as I’d struggled to control my breathing; to push the darkness from the corners of my vision.  
  
(To keep my power from bringing the whole damn cabin down around our ears.)  
  
It wasn’t the exercises themselves that had me feeling so out of sorts. There was actually something soothing about the straightforward physical activity. Sure, it got a little repetitive after a while, but I kind of enjoyed it. If I’d been out here by my own choice — and, let’s face it, I certainly did that often enough anyway — it would have been a perfectly fun way to while away a couple of hours.  
  
No, it was the circumstances which had led to me being here.  
  
I was just smarting because I’d fucked up badly enough that Dad had had to discipline me. Again. And, well, I was smarting somewhat more literally from the punishment itself, but that was neither here nor there. There were far worse things than a few bruises, after all.  
  
(For a brief, horrible moment, I could feel that dreadful pressure on my throat again, but I shoved the memory aside.)  
  
(It was over. It was done. I’d learned my fucking lesson; passed the damn test. Whatever. There was no point in dwelling on it.)  
  
I wrapped my hands in metal once more, and swung a few experimental punches. In some ways, it was almost easier to keep it controlled like this. With barehanded strikes, it had actually been a challenge to hold back my power from simply turning the target into a pile of splinters and stuffing the instant my skin made contact. Apparently when I got angry, it got angry. Or something. Who the hell knew? All **I** knew was that I was pissed off, hurting, **so** fucking hungry and exhausted down to my bones. (So terribly afraid and trying desperately not to be.) All of that meant that I **really** wanted to lash out at something. Under other circumstances, I might have picked a fight with Lance, but lord knew I did not need to give Dad any more reasons to be **disappointed** in me right now.  
  
What was he even doing out here anyway?  
  
“Did you need something?” I asked, my tone about as hostile as I could make it. Maybe he’d take the fucking hint and leave me alone.  
  
“Taking a break from studying. Thought I’d take a walk, stretch my legs, maybe see how many of those things you’ve reduced to kindling.”  
  
“Asshole,” I muttered.  
  
“Bitch,” he returned. “Anyway, I’m not sure you should really be getting pissy with me right now. **You’re** the one who nearly broke **my** ribs, after all.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I damaged you more than I intended to,” I shot back, or tried to. To my shock and discomfort, it actually came out sounding a hell of a lot more sincere than I’d really intended. I scrambled for a save. “Now, are you actually going to stop whining about it sometime this century?”  
  
Not my best come back ever, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. Maybe. Except I wasn’t anywhere near that lucky. I could see that in the way his eyes widened, just a little, before he smoothed his expression into blankness.  
  
I focused on my drills. I really didn’t like having him at my back, but if I told him to fuck off again, he’d likely hang around longer purely for the sake of petty spite. My skin itched once more, and I was uncomfortably aware of just how **easy** it would be to lash out in his direction with my wires. I wasn’t sure whether or not he realised it, but he was well within my range.  
  
Maybe I should focus on drills without powers for a little while.  
  
I couldn’t bear to part with the metal altogether, so I wrapped it around my waist instead. There if I needed it, but not so present as to be a dangerous temptation.  
  
Was this normal, with powers? This sense of… almost… possessiveness over the things I claimed with it? I’d never really cared all that much about mere things. There was no particular point in doing so when anything and everything I owned might have had to be abandoned at a moment’s notice. Somehow, though, this piece of metal I wouldn’t have looked twice at a few short days ago had become more precious to me than diamonds.  
  
Maybe I was just weird.  
  
Anyway. I concentrated on my exercises.  
  
“Hey, Astrid.”  
  
Would he just go already?  
  
“What?” I ground out.  
  
“Catch.”  
  
He threw something toward me, and I caught it reflexively, half expecting whatever-it-was to blow up in my hand. It was… a paper bag? With something inside. Instead of opening it up, however, I gave him a suspicious look.  
  
“What’s this?”  
  
He smirked at me. “Look inside and find out. Unless you’re too chickenshit.”  
  
“Do you always have to be such a dick?” I snapped, glaring at him. “Is it a disease? Like, do you suffer from chronic dickishness syndrome, or something?” But, even as I groused at him, I opened up the bag and peered inside. (Yeah, maybe I could be just a tad too easy to manipulate sometimes.) The object inside it was round and soft, and as I breathed in, I could smell a faint but unmistakeable aroma wafting from it. “Is that…?” My voice had completely lost its sharp tone, softened by awed wonder. “Is that a bacon roll?”  
  
“Yep.” He sounded ridiculously pleased with himself. I… thought I could find it in my heart to forgive him though. Well, as long as…  
  
“You brought this for me?” I asked cautiously, managing to resist the urge to cram the whole thing in my mouth before he could snatch it away from me again.  
  
“Well, I’m certainly not going to risk life and limb by trying to take it out of your hands now,” he said dryly. I side-eyed him, and he sighed softly. “Yes, I brought it for you.”  
  
I studied him, frowning a little.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“What?” he said, smirking again. “You don’t think I’d do something nice for my little sister, just because?”  
  
‘Something nice’? More importantly, something nice that involved defying one of Dad’s edicts?  
  
“No,” I said flatly, staring at him.  
  
The smirk faded from his face, and he looked tired all of a sudden. “Maybe it’s because I’m sorry I unintentionally got you damaged.”  
  
I stared at him.  
  
“I’m not damaged,” I protested, the denial reflexive even as my various injuries reminded me of their presence. Irritably, I tried to shove the awareness away. I mean, it wasn’t like any of them were serious. They were just annoying.  
  
“I was there,” he reminded me quietly, and I suppressed a flinch. I didn’t know what to say to that. We stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and then he smiled a little, gesturing at the Precious. “But if you don’t want that…”  
  
I… may possibly have growled at him. Or it could just have been my stomach. I chose to believe it was the latter.  
  
“I do,” I said, even though it was an effort to use my words right now. I hesitated a moment, and then quietly added. “Thank you.”  
  
“No problem,” he said, shrugging lazily. “It’s cold, I’m afraid — I didn’t want to risk heating it up — but I figured it was better than nothing.”  
  
I certainly wasn’t going to argue with that. I was so hungry right now it felt like my stomach was eating itself. Cautiously — I still wasn’t entirely convinced that this wasn’t some kind of nasty trick — I took the soft roll with its heavenly filling out of the bag. Before taking a bite, however, I hesitated.  
  
“Would you keep a lookout?” I didn’t think I needed to explain why. Dad… really didn’t look kindly on attempts to circumvent his punishments and it was in **both** our interests not to get caught right now.  
  
“Sure.” He laughed suddenly. “Jesus, Astrid; the way you’re looking at that thing, I don’t know whether you’re going to eat it or fuck it. Do you need some privacy?”  
  
“There’s no need to be crude,” I said stiffly, giving him a disgusted look. Honestly, even when he was doing something nice — and there’s a phrase I never expected to think with respect to him — he was **such** an asshole.  
  
But I had something far more important to concentrate on right now.  
  
Ignoring Lance completely, I focused all of my attention on the delicious, delicious bacon roll. ( _Protein, gluten, starch, sugar, fat, salt, various elements and minerals… Wow, gluten was really elastic. I bet it would be fun to play with.)_ Yeah, it was cold, and it wasn’t nearly as filling as I might have hoped, but in that moment, I could have sworn it was the best thing I’d ever tasted. I tried to savour it, to make it last, but it was gone all too quickly. My stomach complained that there wasn’t more, but I told it to shut up.  
  
“You were really hungry, huh?” Lance observed.  
  
“I’ve had a pretty active week.” I said, and sighed. “Speaking of which…”  
  
Disintegrating the bag with a thought (both to get rid of the evidence, and to remove the temptation to cast dignity to the wind and see if any of the bacon taste had transferred to the paper), I turned back to the training dummy and touched the metal wrapped around my waist, making it flow back into its proper position on my arms. I was calm enough now — and was about as close to having warm fuzzy feelings for my brother as I was ever likely to get — that Lance was probably safe from my power at this point.  
  
The silence between us was strangely companionable as I practiced my drills and Lance did whatever the fuck he was doing. Watched me, I guessed. I wasn’t sure why — it really couldn’t have been all that interesting. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t just buggered off back to his studies after completing his objective in coming out here, but I wasn’t going to ask him about it.  
  
Warm fuzzy feelings or not, though, I shifted position so I could keep him in my peripheral vision. I knew better than to let my guard down.  
  
“What’s it like?” he asked, apropos of nothing.  
  
“What’s what like?” I responded absently.  
  
Most of my attention was on my current experiment: making the metal shoot forward as my fist hit the target; an effect kind of like a punch dagger. A punch dagger that could then expand rapidly inside the wound it made, turning even a small puncture into a gaping hole. I tried not to think about what this could do to a person, but I wasn’t entirely successful. My stomach clenched in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.  
  
Pulling the metal back, I set about fixing the damage I’d caused. I was getting better at that, but then I guessed I was getting a lot of practice.  
  
“Having powers,” Lance said. It took me a moment to recall his question.  
  
“It’s…” I thought about it, struggling to put my feelings into words. “It’s a little overwhelming at times. Anything touches my skin, I can sense its structure on a molecular level. There’s so much information, and I can’t shut it off, only damp it down. Even that takes a certain amount of effort. And it’s not just the information. I kind of… There’s always a temptation to reach out and… change things. Shape them.” I turned to face him, metal flowing and twisting between my hands. He followed the movement with his eyes, his expression a mixture of fascination and unease. I had a wire wrap around a small stone and bring it to me, depositing it on the palm of my hand. “Break them,” I finished, and the stone collapsed into powder, the metal wrapping back around my arms and going still.  
  
“Sounds exhausting,” Lance muttered, giving me a wary look.  
  
“It can be,” I agreed. “But it’s also…” I felt a smile tugging at my lips; thought about reining it in but chose to set it free. “It’s kind of awesome, too.”  
  
There was the envy again, glittering like embers in his eyes. I honestly hadn’t been trying to gloat, but an apology wouldn’t help matters. Not that I would’ve apologised in any case. Complications aside, my power **was** awesome. God knew I’d certainly suffered enough to get it — why **shouldn’t** I revel in it a little?  
  
Lance glanced away briefly. When he looked back, his expression was strangely open, almost vulnerable.  
  
“So, how’d you do it?” he asked softly.  
  
I frowned, confused. “Do what?”  
  
“Trigger.”  
  
I froze, the question hitting me like a physical blow. My mind went blank, all rational thought drowned out by a dull roaring in my ears. I struggled to pull myself together, to say something, to just take a breath, but the silence stretched on too long, and the curious look in his eyes curdled to something angry and bitter.  
  
“Be like that then, **bitch** ,” he muttered. “Keep your precious fucking secrets. Just don’t expect me to do anything nice for you ever again.”  
  
“It wasn’t…” I started to say, and then stopped, struggling for words.  
  
Sneering, Lance opened his mouth to say something else, but then another voice said:  
  
“I’m so pleased to see that you feel you’ve mastered your lessons well enough that you have the time to stand around and chat.”  
  
Shit!  
  
I snapped to attention. Lance did the same, and I couldn’t stop myself shooting him an irate — and maybe slightly betrayed — look. Wasn’t he supposed to have been keeping a lookout? I might have suspected this was just some ploy to get me in trouble — well, more trouble — if it hadn’t been for the flicker of genuine nervousness in his eyes. He was worried too.  
  
Dad stepped out from the trees, and even seeing him right there in front of me, I could barely hear the sound of his footsteps. For such a large man, he sure as shit could move quietly when he wanted to. He kept his eyes on me as he approached, his gaze not even flickering so much as a millimetre towards Lance. Distantly, I couldn’t help but wonder whether Lance was relieved or resentful about being so completely ignored. For myself, I was too busy trying not to wilt under that implacable stare.  
  
“Well, girl?” Dad snapped. “What have you got to say for yourself?”  
  
“Nothing, Sir.” What could I even have said that wouldn’t have sounded like an excuse?  
  
Dad regarded me for a long, tense moment.  
  
“Show me the results of your practice so far,” he commanded. With biting sarcasm, he added: “Assuming that you have, in fact, been practicing. As ordered.”  
  
Despite my apprehension — no, let’s be honest: my outright fear — I came closer than I cared to admit to responding to that with some sarcasm of my own. What the hell was wrong with me? Talking back to Dad **never** ended well for me, and I was on thin enough ice with him right now as it was.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said in response, going for the far safer option. I squared off against the now somewhat battered and scarred training dummy, preparing to go though the drills.  
  
“No,” Dad said, shortly.  
  
“Sir?” I asked, cautiously.  
  
“Demonstrate with Lance.”  
  
Lance and I exchanged a brief look, and then took up positions facing each other. We sparred cautiously, not going easy on each other — neither of us wanted to be seen as not taking this seriously enough, after all — but not going as hard as we did when we fought for real. I was **extremely** conscious of the metal wrapped around my fists. I suspected that Lance was, too.  
  
Dad oversaw us impassively, not giving any clues as to what was going through his head.  
  
“Enough,” he said, after a few minutes, and we stood down again, waiting to hear his judgement. “Acceptable,” he pronounced, after a moment. I wanted to believe that would be the end of it, but I couldn’t allow myself to feel relieved just yet. Once again, Dad ignored Lance completely, his attention focused on me. “But there is obviously a problem here.”  
  
My heart sank.  
  
“Sir?” I asked, when he seemed to expect some sort of response.  
  
“You clearly have far too much time on your hands. I shall have to do something about that. We wouldn’t want you to become **bored** after all.” I swear, his sarcasm could slice deeper than my cutting wires. ”Let me see…” He looked thoughtful. I tried not to panic. Maybe he was just talking about more drills; more exercises. It wasn’t **necessarily** anything bad in and of itself. Not necessarily. “Ah, I have it. I think we’ll use the training dummy for this, though.” He did look at Lance then, briefly, before saying. “I wouldn’t want to put your control at risk so soon after you’ve apparently recovered it.”  
  
Probably another at least potentially lethal technique, then. That was alright, though. I could handle taking out another training dummy or two. (We were definitely going to have to put together a few more for the next time we came out here. I idly wondered if I’d be the one given that particular bit of drudge work.)  
  
Taking Dad’s words as an order, I moved to stand before the dummy. Lance withdrew to sit on a tree stump at the edge of the clearing, giving the two of us some space.  
  
“Wires,” Dad said, quietly.  
  
Metal flowed over my skin, unfurling into an array of wires, some bladed, some blunt. I held them poised and ready as I took up a combat stance.  
  
“You’ve become acceptably proficient at slicing and cutting attacks.” The words almost had the cadence of a lecture. “But I think it’s time that we tried something a little more…” It wasn’t a hesitation so much as a pause for effect. “Subtle,” he finished. “I was going to save this for later, but since you’ve worked so very hard on your control today, I feel that such effort should be recognised.”  
  
A feeling of foreboding settled like a lead weight in my chest.  
  
“We’re going to work on strangulation techniques.”  
  
Oh.  
  
He wanted…  
  
I looked at the dummy, thought experimentally about wrapping my wires around the piece of wood and padding that served as its neck; wrapping them around and squeezing.  
  
Immediately, it felt as though there was a hand around my own throat, strong fingers squeezing like bands of iron, shutting off my air, making my head pound and my vision turn black around the edges, lungs burning like fire as-  
  
No.  
  
With effort, I dragged myself back from the brink and focused on my metal, on the way it responded to my slightest thought; on its beauty, its **potential**. It… helped. I mean, I wasn’t exactly calm — I was pretty fucking far from calm right now — but I could focus through it. More or less.  
  
“Did you hear me, girl?” Dad sounded annoyed, and fear spiked through me as I realised he must have given an order I missed while I was busy spacing out like some… some pathetic **weakling**.  
  
I had to get it together. I briefly thought about trying to bluff — to pretend I hadn’t just completely missed what he said — but it was just too risky. Better to own up to my slip right now and accept the consequences.  
  
“Sir?” I queried.  
  
Dad gave me a hard stare. He enunciated his next words very clearly, letting there be no possible room for misunderstanding.  
  
“I said, wrap one of your wires around its neck.”  
  
‘It,’ I told myself. An object, a thing. Not a person. No one was getting hurt here. I could do this. I could…  
  
I thought about it again, visualised reaching out with a wire and-  
  
The walls closed in around me, even though we were outside. Pressure on my throat, lungs burning as I strained to-  
  
No!  
  
Fuck.  
  
 **Fuck**.  
  
I couldn’t do this. Not even to a training dummy. But I… I had to. He’d given me an order. He was expecting me to obey. I’d just have to get over my stupid little panic attack or whatever the fuck it was and do as I was **told**.  
  
I had to do it **now**.  
  
My wires stayed exactly where they were.  
  
“Don’t make me tell you again, girl.” Dad’s voice was a low rumble, the warning more than clear. He was already on the verge of losing his patience with me. Any further disobedience would be punished. Harshly. “Wrap one of your wires around its throat and squeeze. It isn’t hard.”  
  
I… I… I…  
  
“No.”  
  
I’d said that out loud.  
  
Shit!  
  
After all the things he’d made me do, all the different ways I’d learned to take a person apart, all the brutal, vicious, **lethal** moves that were now etched forever in my muscle memory, **this** was the thing that made me balk?  
  
For a handful of seconds, the only thing I could hear was the frantic pounding of my pulse in my ears.  
  
Then: “ **What** did you say?”  
  
I should have backtracked right then and there. I should have apologised. I should have stopped fucking around and followed orders like a good little soldier. I should, in fact, have done anything other that what I actually did, which was to coil my wires back around my arms, turn to face my father, look him directly in the eyes and say:  
  
“No, Sir. I won’t do it.”  
  
I **couldn’t** do it. I knew that. No matter how he punished me for my disobedience.  
  
 **Fuck**.  
  
This was really going to hurt.  
  
I had a vague impression of Lance staring with what looked like shock, but then Dad was bearing down on me and I didn’t have any attention to spare.  
  
“Are you refusing a direct order, girl?”  
  
His voice was quiet, but no less threatening for it. I forced myself to keep my back straight and my chin up. If I was going to commit an act of such complete and utter fuckwittery, I thought bleakly, then by **God** I was going to do it properly. Even so, I had to swallow hard before I could speak.  
  
“Yes, Sir. I am.”  
  
Pain exploded in my left cheek, my breath hissing through my teeth as my head snapped sideways with the force of the blow. My eyes flew wide with shock, and I had to resist the urge to press my fingers to the stinging skin to confirm that it had really happened.  
  
He… He’d hit me in the face!  
  
It had just been a simple, openhanded slap, using no more than a small fraction of his full strength, but… But he **never** touched my face. Not ever. That was one of the rules.  
  
I felt my hands clench into fists as I met his gaze again.  
  
“I’m not sure I heard you correctly,” he said, his tone deceptively mild, belying the sheer fury in his eyes. “Perhaps you should try that again. I would so hate for there to be any misunderstandings between us.”  
  
I was a little shocked at how utterly calm I sounded when I replied, a cold sort of detachment underlying my words even though I was feeling anything **but** cold or detached.  
  
“I said: I won’t do this, Sir. I refuse.”  
  
He backhanded me that time, but I anticipated the blow, rolling with it.  
  
Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.  
  
(Didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a betrayal.)  
  
(Didn’t mean it didn’t fill me with absolute fucking **rage**.)  
  
I snapped my gaze back to his, my eyes narrowing, almost shocked to realise it wasn’t just fear making my breath quicken and my heart pound like a drum. Without really meaning to, I found myself taking a step towards him, metal starting to stir against my skin.  
  
Dad tilted his head, looking almost thoughtful for a moment as he studied me. And then, unexpectedly, he smiled.  
  
“So. That’s how it is. Very well, then, if that’s the way you want it. Take your shot, **girl**. See if you have what it takes.” He moved into a combat stance, the smile vanishing as if it had never even existed. “Show me what you’ve learned.”  
  
Almost before he’d finished speaking, he was in motion, lashing out with one massive fist. I darted aside instinctively, but was just a hair too slow to completely avoid the blow, and even being only just clipped by it was like being hit by a fucking freight train. The impact half-spun me around, and I only managed to keep my feet due to the motivating force provided by sheer desperation.  
  
 **Shit**.  
  
This was serious. **He** was serious. This was really fucking happening, which meant that I needed to get my shit together right the hell now and **focus**.  
  
(Metal started to move against my skin, but I kept in check. I couldn’t… He was my **father**.)  
  
(Besides, he wasn’t really going to hurt me, was he? Not seriously. Not any more than normal.)  
  
Training kept me moving, ducking around behind the much-battered training dummy in the vain hope that it would slow him down. Not a fucking chance. Charging forward, he put his fist right through the wood, sending a spray of splinters hurtling towards me; countless stinging impacts against the exposed skin of the arm I flung up to protect my eyes. In the instant while I was distracted, he wrenched the dummy’s remains off its mount with a crack and hurled them towards me. I whirled around and ducked, but was too slow. Always too fucking slow! The mangled mass of wood smacked hard into my back — but not as hard as it might have done, a distant part of me couldn’t help noting — lighting it up with pain I couldn’t afford to let myself feel right now. I stumbled but didn’t fall, ducking to scoop up one of the larger pieces of wood as I moved, clutching it like a bat as I turned to face the attack I knew was coming.  
  
Sure enough, Dad lunged for me again. I swung the piece of wood with all my strength, frantically trying to smack the blow aside. The wood broke against his arm, but better that than my bones, and I just barely blocked his attack. Luckily, it turned out that close enough wasn’t **just** for horseshoes and hand grenades. Fear told me to run, but instead I drove forward with a follow-up strike of my own, doing my damnedest to smash the remains of my improvised club against his face.  
  
At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about about his goddamn **rules**.  
  
And I had to try to slow him down **somehow**. I couldn’t just run blindly and hope he wouldn’t catch me, because that… that wouldn’t end well for me.  
  
Not stopping to see his reaction — if any — I let momentum carry me forward and past, trying to get the hell out of grappling range before-  
  
Pain flared in my scalp as my head was jerked backwards. He’d grabbed hold of my ponytail, I realised, and even amidst the fog of fear and fury that shrouded my thoughts, I couldn’t help a distant flare of vindication. (I knew long hair was a bad idea in a fight. I fucking **knew** it.) A sharp blow to the kidneys made my knees buckle, but I loosed my grip on my power, just a little, support lines lashing out ahead to keep me upright. My neck felt like it was about to snap like a twig, but both it and my lines held. Bracing myself, I flicked out a hair-thin cutting wire as I pulled my head as far forward as I could. My scalp burned, but that didn’t matter one bit. What did matter was that my hair stretched taut between my scalp and Dad’s fingers, giving me space to slice the wire through.  
  
(Pretty fucking extreme way to get a haircut, I couldn’t help thinking, with a certain bleak humour.)  
  
Even braced for it, the sudden release of that awful tension made me stumble forward a couple of steps, but that was good, that was great, that was just what I needed. Distance was fucking **awesome** right now, and so I managed to turn those clumsy steps into a run and then an all out sprint, desperately trying to give myself some space. The absolute last thing I wanted right now was for him to get his hands on me again.  
  
Fuck. How far was he going to take this? How far would I have to go to make him stop? There was no way in hell I was ready for this fight, but I was in it nonetheless, and the one thing I knew for certain was that I couldn’t afford to lose.  
  
As I ran, I let more of my power slip its leash, enough so that metal exploded out from my arms, wires surging out around me. Not a moment too soon, as it turned out. There was a brief shock of contact — behind me; something coming up fast — and that was the only warning I had before my legs were knocked out from under me. I hit the ground hard, but the brief heads up had been enough for me to control the fall at least a little. Rather than ending up flat on my back, I landed poised to move.  
  
A shadow fell over me, and move I did, metal helping me roll aside so that instead of hitting me, Dad’s hand smacked harmlessly into the earth beside me instead. I used the momentum to quickly regain my feet, but he was still too fucking close for comfort, lashing out with another punch that had me darting backwards as I flung both my arms and my blocking wires up in front of me. It wasn’t enough, quite, and the force that made it through all that still felt like a hammer blow against my ribs. It should have hurt like a son of a bitch — would do, when this was over; assuming I made actually it out the other side — but adrenaline had finally, **finally** carried me to that place where the pain couldn’t touch me. So, instead of crumpling in a heap, I pivoted and snapped out a punch of my own, my metal-wrapped hand connecting solidly with his jaw, sinking into his flesh.  
  
He didn’t even so much as rock back on his heels. Instead, in a mirror of his earlier ‘demonstration’, his hand flew out quicker than I could dodge, his fingers capturing my wrist in a vice-like grip, wrenching it up and around so that if I hadn’t instantly dropped into a half-crouch, it would have…  
  
(Fuck! Would he really have broken my arm? Before, I would have said no; no way. But now… I… I really didn’t know.)  
  
I knew I wasn’t going to break free with my own strength, so I used the metal’s instead, insinuating it between his skin and mine and pushing outward, forcing his grip open just enough that I could wrench my arm free. At the same time, I flung out my other arm and whipped a wire out behind me at his eye level, smacking it into **something**. I didn’t know if I actually whacked him across the eyes — and even blunted, that surely **had** to sting — or if he managed to block in time, but I wasn’t exactly going to hang around to find out.  
  
I **moved**.  
  
It was like one of those nightmares where you’re being chased by some terrible monster, but although you run and run, you never gain any ground. Part of me screamed that fleeing wasn’t a **strategy** , that I couldn’t just run like a coward and hope he wouldn’t catch me, and I knew that it was right, but I… I needed space. I needed a moment to think, to catch my breath. To figure out a plan of attack.  
  
I had to be smart about this.  
  
I quickly scanned my surroundings, and then changed course slightly, angling my path towards an old, long-dead tree. A thought merged several wires into a single cable, which I whipped towards the tree, my power wrapping it around the trunk. I slapped my palm against the dead wood in passing, using the brief contact to sever the trunk at an angle. After that, bringing the whole thing down was child’s play.  
  
(A brief flash of memory: the Boardwalk, just over a week ago; my improvised wooden barricade. I pushed the thoughts away as a distraction I didn’t need.)  
  
The dead tree crashed down right behind me, blocking the narrow trail. It wouldn’t slow him for long, but that wasn’t the point of this. In the moment of impact, I put on a burst of speed and zagged a sharp left, turning forward momentum into a controlled slide down the slope I knew was there. I’d run these trails so many times that, once I had my bearings, I could navigate them blindfolded if I had to. (Dad had made me do that, sometimes, as part of my training, and right now I was really fucking motivated to remember those lessons.) There was a cracking, splintering sound from the top of the ridge, and I guessed that meant my impromptu road block had reached the end of its useful life. No matter. It had already served its purpose.  
  
I hit the bottom of the slope and turned left again, doubling back on myself, moving as quickly as I could without sounding like a whole herd of elephants. A suspicious silence had fallen over the area now. Had Dad moved on, looking for me further down the trail? Or had he figured out that I was circling around behind him? Was he waiting in ambush even now?  
  
Didn’t matter. I couldn’t let him dictate the nature of this engagement. I had to try to turn the tide somehow, and this was my best shot.  
  
(The fact that it was likely my only shot was neither here nor there.)  
  
I didn’t travel far before I climbed back up the slope. It was a little steeper here than where I’d slid down, but nothing I couldn’t I couldn’t handle, especially with the help of my cables. When I reached the top, I cautiously peeked out.  
  
Fuck!  
  
I ducked down again instinctively, praying that Dad hadn’t seen me. It always was a long shot that he would have gone chasing at shadows, but I’d hoped… Never mind. I could still work with this.  
  
“I know you’re there, girl.”  
  
My heart almost leaped out of my chest at his words, my airways constricting as if a hand was already wrapped around my throat. As if this was already over. I shook the feelings off as best as I could. Even if he knew exactly where I was, I still had options. And if he didn’t, if he was just playing mind games, then I sure as shit wasn’t going to do his job for him.  
  
Besides, if he was obliging enough to wait for me to make my move, that was his lookout.  
  
I took a slow, deep breath, just to reassure myself that I could, and pressed my fingertips lightly against the rock beneath me. A careful use of my power carved off three fist-sized chunks of it. Detachedly, I noted that the fingers of my right hand wouldn’t close properly, but I could use metal to compensate for such weaknesses of the flesh.  
  
And then I was moving, fast, using a combination of muscles and cables to pull/push myself up, the metal responding almost faster than I could visualise what I wanted. (If I wasn’t so terrified right now, I thought I would find this exhilarating.) Dad spun around to face me, and I threw my first rock directly at his head. He blocked it with almost contemptuous ease, starting to charge towards me. Or, at least, to where I had been. Still moving, I hurled the second rock, to much the same effect as the first. The third time was the charm, though. Another flare of power, and when this projectile hit his arm, it exploded into a dense cloud of grit and powder. Momentum carried the bulk of the cloud forward and into his face and he coughed, swiping at his eyes.  
  
I took advantage of his momentary distraction — because it couldn’t possibly be anything other than momentary at best — to send my cables lashing towards him, coiling them around his arms and legs, trying with all the strength of the metal under my command to bind him into immobility. To bring him to his fucking knees if I could.  
  
It was the only way I could think to stop him without resorting to drastic measures.  
  
I prayed that this would work; prayed harder than I ever had before. His movements stilled, and I actually began to hope… but then he smiled in a way that turned my blood turn to ice, that told me I’d just made a terrible, terrible mistake. Then the next thing I knew, I was flying forwards through the air.   
  
Time seemed to slow almost to a crawl as I hurtled helplessly towards my father. My wires might as well have been made of string for all they hindered him, and all I’d managed to do was leash myself. I hit the ground hard, my breath whooshing out of me as I sprawled ungracefully at his feet.  
  
Oh God.  
  
I’d failed.  
  
I’d defied him and I’d **failed**.  
  
He was going to hurt me so badly.  
  
He was going to…  
  
No!  
  
Not again. Not **again**.  
  
Metal flowed almost without my command, blunt cables sharpened to razor wire, tightening around his limbs even as I pulled on them to drag myself to my feet. Wires sank deep, deep, **deep** into his flesh, but as bloodlessly and with as much effect as if it was made of silly putty. With a sudden lurch of my stomach, I realised the cables — **my** cables — were wrapped tightly around the bones of his arms. I couldn’t…  
  
I…  
  
What was I **doing**?  
  
I shoved with my power at the cables, severing the metal, causing it to vanish from my awareness as I stumbled back a step, staring at my handiwork in horror.  
  
And Dad, his arms and legs still bound with **my** razor wire, his flesh bulging up through the gaps between the coils… He smiled that awful, vicious smile, and he **reached** for me.  
  
I turned and ran.  
  
I ran as hard as I could, unable to help myself looking back once, twice, thrice, but he was always there, implacably moving after me.  
  
(Somewhere, in a part of my mind that wasn’t screaming, I wondered if this was what it had been like for his targets, back in the old days. Did any of them try to run? Did any of them realise just how hopeless it was?)  
  
The fourth time I looked back, a root stole my feet from under me, and the next thing I knew I was on the ground.  
  
The impact shocked me out of my terrified daze, and as the uncharacteristically loud thump, thump, thump of my father’s footsteps drew ever closer, I reached out desperately with my power. Since I’d stupidly pushed my metal from me, the only thing I had that I could use was the ground itself. It fought me, but I **made** it serve, ruthlessly brute-forcing bonds with neither delicacy nor finesse, just the sheer force of my will. Dad’s eyes met mine, and instinct and screamed at me to get to my feet and **move**. Training, however, kept me in place.  
  
I had to time this right. I couldn’t risk tipping him off before I was ready.  
  
Slowly, yet inexorably, Dad closed the distance between us, one deliberate step at a time. Like he knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Like he thought I’d given up. He’d stopped smiling now, and the expression on his face was completely unreadable to me. Closer and closer he came. He took another step…  
  
And I turned the ground to glass beneath his feet.  
  
He slipped and slid as his feet lost traction on the suddenly treacherous surface For one horrible moment, I thought he’d keep his balance, but then he teetered just a little too far and crashed to the ground. I came up into a half crouch, fingertips lightly resting on the edges of the glass. Another flare of my power, and when I rose into a fighting stance, glass came with me.  
  
Glass wasn’t as strong as metal, but my power meant it didn’t have to be, and it could hold an edge like you wouldn’t believe. Not that it would do me a blind bit of good. If my wires cutting through what passed for Dad’s flesh didn’t stop him, what chance did my glass knives have?  
  
Didn’t matter, though.  
  
I wasn’t going to run any more.  
  
Even if I couldn’t win this, even if I had no chance at all, by God and all the angels of his heavenly host, I was going to go down **fighting**.  
  
Dad paused in the midst of getting carefully back to his feet, looking thoughtfully at me. The moment felt like it lasted for an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than a second or so. And then… He smiled. A real smile; not that feral baring of teeth from before. He looked… He looked genuinely happy.  
  
“Good girl,” he said. Those two words held such pride, such love, that despite the fear, despite the revulsion at what I’d done, despite the pain that was starting to filter back into my awareness, I actually felt my heart lift. “I knew you had it in you,” he continued, his smile broadening. “All you needed was a little push.” He looked at me expectantly. I stared blankly back at him, and his voice was soft as he said: “You can stand down, Astrid.”  
  
It wasn’t an order, quite, but I still found myself relaxing into a rest position, my knives reshaping themselves into, well, bracelets, I supposed. Even now, still reeling from the events of the past few… minutes? (It had felt like hours.) I still felt the urge to play with the glass, but I resisted. This wasn’t the time.  
  
I studied Dad as he got slowly and carefully to his feet, trying to avoid seeing the wires still coiled around his arms and legs. Trying to avoid seeing what I’d done to him.  
  
“This was a test?” I asked carefully. I felt kind of… I wasn’t really sure, honestly. Mostly just… numb.  
  
“Think of it as a final exam,” he said. “Which you passed. You’ve come such a long way. We still have work to do, of course, but you’ve proved that you can hold to your training under pressure. Trust me: that’s a big step.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir.” My voice was barely louder than a whisper.  
  
He… All of this; the pain, the fear, everything. Fearing for the first time that he might not stop at surface damage, that I might have ended up crippled or maimed. Being so fucking scared out of my mind that I let myself… That I…  
  
It was a test? It wasn’t real?  
  
I… I could have **killed** him!  
  
Except no, obviously not, because I honestly wasn’t sure if he actually could be killed. Did he even feel pain? A decade and a half as his daughter and I still had no fucking clue. But if he hadn’t been… If he’d been anyone else, if he’d been **normal** , my wires would have filleted him.  
  
I’d done that. Me. Not my wires, much though I tried to tell myself that they were acting of their own accord. On some level, I’d made the choice to use lethal attacks. Which meant that, apparently, all my principles and my self-imposed limits went right out the fucking window the moment I got sufficiently **terrified**.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t.  
  
But, for the first time, I found myself wondering if perhaps I could be.  
  
Having managed to stand while my thoughts chased each other round and round in circles, Dad walked over to me and rested one hand lightly on my shoulder.  
  
“I’m so fucking proud of you, my girl.”  
  
I loved him so much it almost took my breath away.  
  
I’d never hated him so much as I did in that moment.  
  
But, mostly, I just felt nothing at all.


	8. Claustrophobia 1.08

It was déjà vu all over again, I thought to myself as I packed clothes and schoolwork into my bag.  
  
Just like last time, I moved carefully in a pretty futile attempt to avoid aggravating my injuries. Also just like last time, I was kind of dreading the upcoming car journey. And I was **definitely** feeling distinctly apprehensive about what was waiting at our destination. Again, just like last time.  
  
Even though, this time, we were going home.  
  
Hell week was officially over. I’d passed my final exam. I was ‘field ready,’ whatever that meant.  
  
No, I knew exactly what that meant. I’d just been trying really hard not to think about it.  
  
I’d concentrated on getting through the week, but now I had to face up to what success actually meant. Except, right now, I just didn’t have it in me. I was completely drained; worn out physically, mentally, emotionally… I just didn’t have anything left right now. So I was going to give myself this one last day.  
  
I would get through the car journey as best as I could. I would have a long shower — with decent water pressure, unlike the pitiful trickle we got out here at the cabin. I would have as good a night’s sleep as I could manage in my own bed.  
  
Somewhere in there I should probably try to eat something too, I supposed.  
  
(Even though I felt sick to my stomach right now.)  
  
And when morning came, I would get my shit together and do my level best to figure out what the fuck I was going to do.  
  
It wasn’t much of a plan, true, but right now it was all I had.  
  
So I pushed aside the vague feelings of distress and worse that were threatening to break through the numbness that still shrouded my thoughts in cotton wool, and concentrated on my packing.  
  
Idly, I wondered what day it was. They’d all started to blur into each other by this point, the edges made hazy by too little sleep and too much stress. Was it Saturday? I had a vague feeling it might be Friday or Saturday, but I wasn’t quite sure. In the end, I had to check the display on my phone. Sunday. Huh. I guessed time didn’t just fly when you were having fun. But if it was Sunday, then that meant… Hellfire and damnation. I was going to have to go to school tomorrow. Assuming Dad didn’t sign me off sick again, of course, but I doubted he’d do that just for the sake of a few bruises or whatever. My face didn’t look that bad, and it wasn’t like I didn’t have a bit of a reputation for getting into fights. Anyone who paid attention to me — not that large a group in all honesty; I tended to keep my head down at school — would probably just assume I’d gotten into a bit of scrap over the past few days. Which, I guessed, wasn’t all that far from the truth.  
  
Technically.  
  
I was just glad that soccer practice wasn’t until Wednesday.  
  
I zipped my bag closed and gave my room a once-over. Everything looked pretty shipshape, and I didn’t appear to have forgotten anything obvious.  
  
Well. There was one thing left, but I hadn’t forgotten that so much as been avoiding it. I still had Lance’s chemistry textbook. I should probably return it to him so he could spend the journey studying if he wanted to. I just…  
  
I had the impression he was more than a little pissed off with me right now. Not that I’d really spoken to him since Dad’s little test, but the murderous little glances he’d been sending my way were kind of a massive fucking clue. Was it the fact that Dad was pleased with me? That, except for the occasional brusque command, he’d been more or less ignoring Lance? Who the hell knew? But it meant that any encounter with him without Dad around could well end up becoming a confrontation.  
  
There were no words for how little that appealed to me right now.  
  
On the other hand, if I didn’t return his thrice-damned textbook before we left, he might decide to come and reclaim it. That was hardly likely to go any better. I sighed softly, feeling every single one of my bruises. Probably best to just bite the bullet and get this over with.  
  
Apropos of nothing, a memory suddenly floated up from the depths of my mind. A memory of long ago and far away, before Brockton Bay was anything more than a distant storm on the horizon. I wasn’t sure exactly when this had happened, but I knew the pair of us had been pretty young. Lance had found me crying over the pieces of Dad’s favourite beer stein. I wasn’t sure, but I thought the stein had been a gift from my mother. Either way, it had meant something to him. And I’d broken it.  
  
(I distinctly recalled that my face had been wet, which meant it was back when I **could** still cry. And I wasn’t sure exactly when I stopped, but I had a feeling it was somewhere around age… eleven, maybe? Twelve? So, this memory must have been from at least four or five years ago. Probably longer than that.)  
  
I didn’t remember actually breaking the stein, but I did remember trying desperately to put it back together again. I’d grown more and more frantic as the pieces stubbornly refused to fit until, completely overwhelmed, I’d just started sobbing my little heart out. That was when Lance had come in.  
  
(I’d felt comforted when he put his arms around me, a concept that seemed positively alien to me these days. It must have been before I started flinching inside whenever he approached, which meant it was definitely before I turned ten or eleven.)  
  
I wasn’t sure how understandable my explanation of events could have been, considering just how much I’d been bawling, but I guessed he probably got the gist of things just by using his eyes. The next part of the memory was just a vague impression of being held and comforted (which, honestly, still seemed really fucking weird to me), but there was one moment that stood out with crystal clarity.  
  
Once I’d calmed down enough to speak clearly, I’d looked up and, very seriously indeed, told him:  
  
‘Lance, I don’t want to go to the basement. I still hurt from last time.’  
  
(Now, that didn’t really narrow the time-frame down at all. Every place I’d ever lived had had a basement. Not that it was always a basement, of course. Sometimes it was an attic, or just an ordinary room. In one particularly small apartment, it had been a hall closet with the shelves taken out. But wherever it was, whatever it was, Lance and I both knew it as a place we feared.)  
  
(And, in my mind, they were all basements.)  
  
He’d smiled at me, then, and the expression had seemed to light up his whole face.  
  
(So, this obviously happened before his smiles stopped reaching all the way to his eyes. Which was… when? Somewhere around age nine or ten? Which meant I couldn’t have been older than eight or nine. Although I had a feeling that I might have been even younger than than that. I wanted to say seven, but I really wasn’t certain.)  
  
‘You’re not going to the basement, Triss,’ he’d said. ‘It’s going to be okay. I can fix this.’ Stupidly, I’d thought he was talking about the stein. ‘But you have to dry those tears. You can’t let the old man see you crying. Okay?’  
  
(I knew he’d only started calling me Triss after I turned five or so. We’d been invited to a birthday party for one of the kids on our street, but they got my name wrong on the invitation. To this day, I wasn’t sure how they’d managed to get Triss from Astrid, but I guessed Chinese whispers with five year olds could give the most random mis-spellings. Anyway, Lance had liked the sound of it, and it had sort of stuck. For a while.)  
  
(So, I supposed I must have been somewhere between five and seven when this had happened.)  
  
(As for the birthday party itself… Dad had forbidden us from going, but we’d sneaked out anyway. We’d gotten caught, of course, but the crime had been **totally** worth the punishment.)  
  
I’d nodded and wiped my eyes. I had an uncomfortable feeling I might have told him I loved him, or some sappy shit like that. But he’d told me to go and play in my room and, like a fool, I’d happily trotted off, secure in the knowledge that my big brother would make everything alright.  
  
I only found out later that he’d told Dad he’d broken the stein. That he’d ended up down in the basement in my place.  
  
 **Idiot**.  
  
I actually felt kind of weird thinking about this now. At the time, I’d felt utterly horrified, horribly guilty, and kind of awed. And, yes, I’d loved him for protecting me, even though I swore I would never let him do anything like that ever again.  
  
A certain bleak humour filled me at that thought. Because I really didn’t think it was anything I had to worry about these days. Quite the opposite: he now had a marked tendency to drop me in it at every available opportunity.  
  
(Yet, strangely, I never could bring myself to do the same to him. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was naive, but it just… It wasn’t the way I worked.)  
  
Anyway, I wasn’t sure why I was thinking about ancient history right now. We weren’t the same people as we’d been back then. I didn’t think we’d ever have anything like the relationship we’d once had, once upon a time. Most of the time, that was just fine by me. Now, though…  
  
It wasn’t that I wanted us to be friends again, not exactly. With everything that lay between us, I wasn’t sure that was even possible. But I thought… I wondered…  
  
Could we maybe… Not be enemies?  
  
He hadn’t been planning on snitching about me hitting him too hard. And he had brought me a bacon roll after Dad had decided I didn’t deserve lunch. But, on the other hand, that had been before he’d thought I was refusing to tell him how I triggered. And before whatever the fuck had caused his more recent bout of pissiness.  
  
So… The jury was still out?  
  
Anyway, there was no point in dwelling on hypotheticals. I should go and return his textbook before he came looking for it.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“The fuck do you want, bitch?”  
  
Well, this was off to a flying start.  
  
“Just returning your textbook, **asshole** ,” I retorted, wandering in through the open door of Lance’s room to set the book down on his bed. I almost turned and left right away, but something made me hesitate, made me ask: “What’s got you so worked up?”  
  
Not the most diplomatic way of phrasing the question, perhaps, but by no means was it the worst. At least I hadn’t gone with my first thought, which had been to ask what had gotten his knickers in such a twist.  
  
Yeah. Where Lance was concerned, as a diplomat I made an **excellent** agent provocateur. What could I say? We both excelled at pushing each other’s buttons.  
  
Lance went very still for a moment or two, but then he exploded into motion. Flinging whatever he’d been holding aside, he whirled around and stalked towards me, his hands clenched tightly into fists. Even half-expecting violence of some kind — I pretty much always did from him, these days — I still startled a little at the sudden movement, twitching into a defensive stance as metal tried to stir from where it was coiled around my arms. By the time I had my power in check, he was already right in my face, and his expression was positively murderous.  
  
As exhausted and hurting as I was, it took pretty much every scrap of willpower I had right now to stand my ground.  
  
“Did you come here to gloat? Is that what this is?” he snarled.  
  
I stared at him, confused.  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“Don’t you fucking **dare** try to play the innocent with me. What did you do? Bat your eyelashes at the old man and ask him to pretty please make me fall in line?”  
  
“Of course not!” I tried to keep a leash on my temper, but it was **really** hard to keep my cool with him pushing me like this. Especially when he was suggesting I’d… What? Asked Dad for help getting my **asshole** brother off my case? How fucking **dare** he? I would never do that. I solved my own damn problems, thank you very bloody much. “Why, what did he say?”  
  
“Like you don’t know,” he sneered.  
  
“Newsflash, jackass: I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. I haven’t talked to Dad about you at all. Why the hell would I? I’ve kind of been dealing with my own shit, in case you hadn’t noticed.”  
  
“Figuring out your **powers** you mean?” The way he growled the word ‘powers’ made it sound like an obscenity. “Cry me a river, bitch. At least you **have** powers. What do I have? Sweet fuck all, that’s what.”  
  
“That’s not-“  
  
I wasn’t entirely sure how I was going to finish that sentence, but it didn’t matter. He just kept talking.  
  
“You know, you almost had me buying into your little sob story about how hard you had it. Almost had me actually feeling sorry for you, believe it or not.” He sneered. “I don’t know what’s worse, that you tried to sell me that crock of shit, or that you might actually believe it yourself. But maybe you really are just that stupid. Maybe you don’t understand how much he’s coddled and sheltered you over the years. Maybe you don’t realise the effort he’s made to keep you away from **real** work. But even someone as wilfully blind as you eventually has to admit the truth.”  
  
“Which is **what** , Lance?” I demanded, impatiently. “Go on spit it out. You’re obviously dying to get it off your chest.”  
  
He gave me a look filled with such disgust, such hate, that even coming from him it damn near took my breath away.  
  
“You’re his golden child. His favourite. Daddy’s little girl. And it makes me sick to my fucking stomach that he can’t see what you really are.”  
  
(My stomach clenched as I wondered what he meant by that; wondered if…)  
  
(No. It was nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.)  
  
(It had to be.)  
  
The sheer fucking nonsense spewing from his mouth was just so ridiculous, so completely and utterly **wrong** , that all I could do was stare at him in disbelief. Didn’t we already have this conversation? And since then, not only had he actually witnessed Dad disciplining me, he must have seen at least some of what happened during my so-called ‘final exam’. How could anyone possibly look at that and think: ‘Yes, she’s obviously his favourite child?’  
  
I tried to think of a way to put my thoughts into words he’d understand, but he apparently wasn’t done venting yet.  
  
“You know what would happen if **I** was ever stupid enough to refuse a direct order? He’d take his belt to me, at the very least. You? A token effort at a fight, and then you get rewarded. You get his goddamn **approval**.” He took a step forward, so we were practically standing toe to toe, glaring down at me as if he was trying to set me on fire with his rage. “And **I** get told that it’s more important than ever that I have your back. That you’re starting to take your rightful place in the world, which means it’s up to me to do what I can to make the transition a smooth one.” He took a breath, his face twisting like his next words left a foul taste in his mouth. “And I’m going to have to learn to follow your fucking **orders**. Like a good lieutenant. Because that’s all I’m ever going to be to him: someone who follows. But you? **You’re** going to be the leader; you’re going to be the one giving the commands. And he’s expecting me to just **obey**!”  
  
Oh, sh-  
  
My back hit the wall and the world whited out for a moment. I had to bite my tongue to stay silent, but I would be **damned** if I would give my asshole brother the satisfaction of hearing me cry out in pain.  
  
Belatedly, I realised that he hadn’t actually hit me; just shoved me backwards. Hard. He loomed over me now, his hands digging painfully into my upper arms, using his greater strength and mass to effortlessly pin me in place.  
  
“Scream for the old man,” he challenged me, knowing full well I wouldn’t. “Go on, I **dare** you. Beg him to save his perfect little **princess** from her big, bad brother.”  
  
“Go fuck yourself,” I snapped before I could stop myself.  
  
His lips twisted in what was only very technically a smile. “Kind of thought you’d say that,” he breathed. He released his grip on my arms, but didn’t step away. Instead, he shifted his weight slightly and slowly drew back one hand, clenching it into a fist.  
  
Maybe I was a touch predictable sometimes. And perhaps I was a just little too easy for him to manipulate. But my **asshole** brother really hadn’t thought this through. Sure, on top of being physically weaker than him, I’d really been put through the wringer this week. So, yes, maybe I didn’t have all that much chance against him in a fight right now. Or whatever the fuck this bullshit was supposed to be.  
  
But I didn’t have to fight him physically.  
  
I had **options**.  
  
And the only reason I hadn’t turned my power on him already was because I was worried about what it — what **I** — might do to him. But now? I was so damn tired of being hurt. (And so fucking **over** being slammed into things.) I… I didn’t want to be hit again. I hurt so very much right now and I just wanted it to stop.  
  
I wanted him to stop.  
  
I wanted him to back the fuck off and leave me alone.  
  
I wasn’t even angry any more, not really. I was just so tired.  
  
Raising my arms as if to block, I flicked my wrists out, and metal flowed forth.  
  
 _Bind._  
  
Slim cables wrapped around Lance’s wrists, and then cross-linked to form a set of manacles.  
  
(I had to be quick here; I had to be careful. Dad’s little test had taught me a valuable lesson: force could be exerted in both directions. Just as I could yank my opponent off balance, they could potentially do the same to me. Especially if they were stronger. Especially if they had the chance to brace themselves. So I did what I could to minimise the risk: worked fast, adjusted the profile of my cables ever so slightly, and prepared to sever the connection if necessary.)  
  
 _Constrict._  
  
Metal contracted, rapidly drawing his arms together, the loose manacles condensing into a more solid set of handcuffs. Dad could undoubtedly have broken them. Lance, though, with his merely human strength, didn’t have a chance.  
  
(It would have been better to bind his arms behind his back. Certainly, I could have restricted his movements more that way. Unfortunately, given the fact that both hands were currently in front of him, that would have been much more difficult to pull off. Not to mention really fucking slow.)  
  
Although it felt like all of this was happening in slow motion, it really, really wasn’t.  
  
A handful of heartbeats, and Lance had gone from being poised to beat the shit out of me to having his hands bound in front of him. That didn’t mean he was helpless, of course, but I wasn’t finished yet.  
  
I was distantly aware of him saying something, but I didn’t care.  
  
Of more concern was when he started trying to clobber me with his bound hands, but I’d been expecting that.  
  
 _Push_.  
  
Stepping sideways, I used the rest of my metal to turn the cable connecting us into a rigid pole and braced it against the wall.  
  
Now I didn’t have to worry about him getting close enough to hit me.  
  
 _Claim._  
  
I reached for the metal bed frame, forging new cables.  
  
 _Bind. Constrict. Immobilise._  
  
Metal wrapped around his ankles, binding them in a similar manner to his wrists. A sharp pull with the cable put him off balance, and a kick to the back of his legs finished the job, dropping him to his knees.  
  
He wasn’t going anywhere now. Not without my permission.  
  
Satisfied, I moved back around to where I could see his face. Only then did I actually tune in to what he was saying.  
  
“-the hell you think you’re playing at, but you’d better let me go right the fuck now, **bitch**!”  
  
His words were belligerent, hostile, angry, but I could see the fear in his eyes. That should probably have meant something to me, I thought. It surely should have caused some kind of emotional response. But right now it was just a data point.  
  
“No,” I said simply, calmly meeting his gaze.  
  
He glared at me. If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead on the spot. I supposed I should probably be grateful he didn’t have powers.  
  
(Although, if he did, maybe we wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.)  
  
 “You know you’re not allowed to use your powers on me outside of training,” he snarled, struggling fruitlessly to free himself from his bonds. I tightened them a little, trying to dissuade him, but he did little more than briefly still before increasing the fervour of his attempts.  
  
I frowned a little, and let the metal return to its previous level of tension. Pitting his flesh against against metal wires wasn’t his best move. I understood why he’d make the attempt, but he was going to hurt himself if he wasn’t careful. That was… less than optimal.  
  
He looked at me like he was expecting something. I looked steadily back, waiting to see what approach he tried next.  
  
“When the old man finds out about this, he’ll have you in the basement for a **week**. And after he’s done with you, I’m going to…”  
  
More threats; promises of violence. The usual.  
  
How very predictable.  
  
I sighed softly.  
  
“No,” I said again.  
  
He broke off mid-tirade, looking at me a little uncertainly. On top of everything, he probably wasn’t used to seeing me so calm. Not that it was calmness so much as the fact that I just didn’t have the energy to feel much of anything, but I guessed it was hard to tell the difference from the outside.  
  
“What do you mean ‘no’, bitch?”  
  
Exhaustion or not, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at the fact that, despite his predicament, he still thought it was a good idea to call me names. And unimaginative ones at that. Not that I really had any stones to throw in that regard, I supposed.  
  
“I mean: I’m not your fucking punching bag, Lance,” I told him, my voice level despite the expletive. “You don’t get to smack me around because you’re pissed off at Dad, or you’re having a bad day, or you just wake up one morning and feel like beating the shit out of someone. That’s not going to happen any more.”  
  
Fights between us were one thing. I could handle those just fine, even if they didn’t always go my way. But the shit he’d just tried to pull? That could go die in a fire. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to do something like this to me, but I was going to make sure it would be the last.  
  
“I’m going to do so much worse than just smack you around,” he said darkly. “Just you wait and see.”  
  
Really? I couldn’t help thinking, studying him with a detached kind of bemusement. I had him restrained and down on his knees, and he still thought it was a good idea to double down on his threats? What did I have to do to get through to him?  
  
“No, you won’t,” I said.  
  
His only response was to sneer at me and keep trying to break free.  
  
Even through the ice that seemed to be freezing me from the inside out, I felt a pang of despair. I hadn’t changed anything. I hadn’t **solved** anything. All I’d managed to do was make things worse for myself. I couldn’t keep Lance immobilised forever, and he wasn’t just going to let this go. He was going to make me pay.  
  
(He was going to make me **hurt**.)  
  
What did I have to do to make him **stop**?  
  
(I didn’t want to be hurt any more.)  
  
My power surged through the metal, and for one horrible moment I thought it — **I** — was going to… to **damage** him. Or worse. But I didn’t want that. I wouldn’t **do** that. I didn’t even want him to hurt himself trying to get free of my wires. I certainly wasn’t going to… I wasn’t…  
  
A compromise!  
  
The thought was desperate; the panic strong enough to pierce the shroud keeping my emotions at bay. And my power… listened.  
  
There was a heartbeat where it felt like everything hung in the balance, but then that balance shifted and my control settled firmly into place again. Not letting myself think about what I was doing, I shifted the metal around, transferring the tethers of Lance’s restraints to my left arm, while I formed another wire from the remaining metal wrapped around my right arm.  
  
A flick of my wrist, and it flew towards him.  
  
A flare of power, and it settled around his throat.  
  
(Somewhere far away, there was horror.)  
  
(Somewhere beneath the ice inside my heart, there was a vast, deep ocean of self-loathing.)  
  
(Somewhere beyond the numbness was a feeling, like a hand tightening around my own neck.)  
  
(It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I had to make him **stop**. I couldn’t let him hurt me. And I had to make him stop hurting himself.)  
  
(Falling apart would have to wait until afterwards.)  
  
I was so, so careful.  
  
I checked, double-checked and triple-checked that the wire was blunted, its structure weak compared to that of the restraints, that it would break if he thrashed around too much. I made sure there was space enough that his breathing wasn’t impaired in any way, that the metal was light and flexible enough that it would rest gently upon his skin. He should have barely even been able to feel it.  
  
Even so, Lance went absolutely still, his eyes going wide with shock.  
  
No, not just shock. Terror.  
  
I wasn’t sure he was even breathing.  
  
(I knew exactly, **exactly** how he felt.)  
  
(I hated myself that much more.)  
  
“I don’t think you understand, Lance,” I said, and some of the cold spreading through me leaked out into my voice, turning it to ice. “I’m not making a request, I am giving you an order. This ends. Now.”  
  
He suddenly drew in a breath, the sound seeming loud in the otherwise silent room.  
  
(I still felt the phantom sensation of pressure on my own throat; nausea making my stomach flutter uneasily.)  
  
Rage twisted his face, chasing the fear away. Or at least doing one hell of a job of masking it. It looked like he was about to speak, but he never got the chance.  
  
“What’s going on here?”  
  
It was a measure of how numb and detached I was feeling that I couldn’t even muster up any fear of my own.  
  
Carefully, I turned so I could keep Lance in my peripheral vision while facing Dad.  
  
“I’m reminding my lieutenant of his place, Sir,” I informed him calmly.  
  
He looked from me to Lance, and then back to me again.  
  
“Don’t take too long about it,” he said mildly. “I want us to be ready to leave within the hour.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said.  
  
He turned to leave then, and without intending it, I found my gaze drawn back to Lance. He stared in the vague direction of Dad’s retreating back — as close as he could get without being able to twist his head all the way around — and the expression on his face was so shocked, so betrayed, so **broken** that I almost let him go right then and there.  
  
Almost.  
  
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t show weakness now. That would defeat the whole damn point of this exercise.  
  
(And then I would have done all this — compromised myself; damned myself, maybe — for nothing.)  
  
(That was not an acceptable outcome.)  
  
(Maybe I should have just taken the beating. If I could make the choice again, I thought I’d choose differently. I could handle pain. This, though? I wasn’t sure I could handle this.)  
  
(But I’d already made my choice. I’d started this, and so I had to see it through. I **had** to.)  
  
(No matter how much I wished I’d chosen otherwise.)  
  
“Have I made my point?” I asked quietly.  
  
His gaze snapped to me, his eyes blazing with such vicious fury that I almost took a step backwards despite myself. I didn’t, of course, but the urge was there, albeit dulled by the distance between me and my emotions right now.  
  
When he didn’t reply right away, I sent my power through the manacles at his wrists and ankles, constricting them ever so slightly; just enough for him to feel it. I didn’t touch the wire around his neck, but we both knew I could have done.  
  
(I wouldn’t. I **wouldn’t**.)  
  
“Yes,” he snapped suddenly. “You’ve made your fucking point.” There was a pause, and then he continued in a quieter voice. “You planning on letting me go anytime soon? I need to finish packing.”  
  
Good enough.  
  
I didn’t bother replying with words, letting my metal speak for me as it flowed away from him to return to its proper place. Even after Lance was free, though, he remained there for a moment, kneeling there on the floor. Slowly, he started to raise one hand to his throat, only to cut off the motion part way. In a flash, he was on his feet again, and I half expected him to advance on me, but he just stood there, his whole body rigid with tension, practically vibrating in place. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles stood out visibly.  
  
(I’m sorry, I wanted to say.)  
  
(I just didn’t want you to hurt me again.)  
  
(I was afraid I’d hurt you worse if I didn’t do something to make you stop.)  
  
(I’ll never do anything like that again, I wanted to promise.)  
  
(I’m so, so, **so** sorry.)  
  
I looked at my brother and tried to tell myself that I felt nothing at all.  
  
“I guess you really are the old man’s daughter after all,” he ground out, his voice thick with hate. “Maybe you should call yourself Garrotte.”  
  
(Garrotte, daughter of Throttle.)  
  
(No. No, never. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. That wasn’t me. It wasn’t… I wasn’t anything like him. I wasn’t. I **wasn’t**.)  
  
(And yet… And yet I’d done **this**.)  
  
“I’ll take that under advisement,” I heard myself say dryly.  
  
Lance clenched his hands into fists… and turned away, crossing stiffly to his bed. He looked like he was expecting an attack.  
  
“Get the fuck out of my room.” His words were barely even audible. “And close the damn door behind you.”  
  
The shroud of icy numbness surrounding me started to thin, just a little, and everything I’d been shutting out started to creep back in. My hands wanted to shake, but I refused to let them.  
  
I’m sorry, I thought, willing him to hear it, to understand.  
  
But I didn’t say a word.  
  
I remained completely and utterly silent as I left his room, closing the door behind me. As I walked the few steps down the hall to my own room and shut myself in. As I collapsed on the bed and started shaking uncontrollably.  
  
I thought of a boy comforting a girl half-scared out of her mind, protecting her in the only way he could, even though he suffered for it. I thought of a girl who loved her brother more than anything, who swore she’d never again let him be hurt because of her. Not ever.  
  
I thought about choices made that couldn’t be unmade, no matter how hard you prayed they could.  
  
I thought about things broken beyond all hope of repair.  
  
And, for the first time in a long time, I wished with all my heart that I could remember how to cry.


	9. Claustrophobia 1.09

The drive home was even worse that the trip to the cabin had been. Lance wouldn’t so much as look at me, and I imagined I could feel the anger and hate radiating from him in waves, filling the car with a palpable, choking miasma. I couldn’t honestly say that I blamed him. God knew I certainly hated myself enough right now.  
  
Dad was inscrutable. He didn’t **seem** angry, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I had broken the rules, after all, using my power on Lance like that. Just because he hadn’t said anything at the time didn’t mean he wasn’t planning on disciplining me for it. He might just not have reprimanded me at the time because he didn’t want to make me look weak in front of Lance. So, as well as the guilt and regret and self-loathing and everything else, there was also the overwhelming sense of dread for me to deal with.  
  
I knew I deserved to be punished for what I’d done, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t dreading what form that punishment might take.  
  
(I was also dreading the decision I was going to have to make, but I refused to let myself think about that. It would wait until the morning. It would have to. I simply couldn’t face it right now.)  
  
Finally, there was the fact that, no matter how I shifted around in my seat, there wasn’t a single goddamn position I could find that didn’t cause some bruise or scrape to flare with pain. It was not the most comfortable journey I’ve ever had, that was for sure. And I discovered in myself a whole new level of loathing for whoever was responsible for maintaining the roads in Brockton Bay. I swear, we must have hit every single bloody pothole between the city limits and our house.  
  
Seriously, **fuck** those road maintenance guys. Sideways. With a shovel.  
  
When I could finally, **finally** get out of the car, I was so stiff and sore that I could barely move. About the only thing that kept me from collapsing in a pathetic heap at the side of the driveway — well, aside from the fact that I absolutely refused to ever show weakness if I could possibly help it — was the thought of the hot shower waiting for me upstairs.  
  
Settling my bag a little more comfortably — seriously, when did it get so heavy? Had someone filled it with rocks when I wasn’t looking? — I started trudging up the stairs towards my room.  
  
“Astrid.”  
  
Resisting the urge to groan aloud, I paused in the stairwell, turning to face Dad.  
  
“Yes, Sir?”  
  
“Come down to the sitting room when you’ve stowed your things. We need to have a talk.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
‘Talk.’  
  
In our house, that term was often a euphemism, together with ‘discussion,’ ‘conversation’ or ‘chat.’ They pretty much all meant pain of some kind. But he didn’t tell me to go to the basement, so… Maybe this time he really did mean to talk?  
  
Or, maybe he meant that we’d talk, and then we’d ‘talk’.  
  
Well, shit. There went any chance of having that shower any time soon. Honestly, I was almost more concerned about that than about the upcoming conversation. Or ‘conversation.’ Whatever.  
  
Anyway, he wasn’t going to be able to damage me too badly. Not if he still expected me to go to school tomorrow.  
  
Somehow, I didn’t find that thought as reassuring as I might have hoped.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

When I went back downstairs, Dad was sitting on the sofa, a bottle of beer in one hand. He looked up at me as I entered the room and stood to attention.  
  
“At ease,” he said quietly, surprising me. I guessed that meant we really were going to talk. It actually felt good to relax a little, some of the nagging aches in my muscles and joints actually easing somewhat as I stood down. Apparently, I’d really been quite tense. For some strange reason. “Come and sit with your old man,” Dad continued, gesturing at the sofa next to him.  
  
(I tried not to look at the lines scored into the flesh of his arm, the way the skin was ridged and puckered from where my wires had bitten deep. The damage, such as it was — it didn’t seem to impair him one iota — had already healed significantly just over the past few hours. It would be gone completely by tomorrow, I knew. That knowledge did little to help me feel better about what I’d done.)  
  
I’d been planning on taking one of the chairs if I got to sit down for this, but even when at ease, an order was still an order. Carefully, I settled into the indicated seat. By which I mean I perched on the edge of the cushion, keeping my back straight and my feet on the floor.  
  
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked cautiously, watching him like a hawk for any kind of reaction, however small. When he didn’t so much as twitch at the lack of a ‘Sir,’ I relaxed a fraction more. (There were, of course, varying degrees of ‘at ease,’ and it wasn’t always obvious at the outset how much informality would be tolerated. I really didn’t want to guess incorrectly.)  
  
In lieu of answering, he reached out and snagged another bottle from the coffee table, holding it out to me. I automatically started to reach out, but then hesitated, confused. Dad chuckled, seemingly amused by my obvious befuddlement.  
  
“This is a celebration,” he explained, smiling. The expression somehow seemed to soften the lines of his face making him look, well, not gentle. I wasn’t sure that was really possible for him. But, maybe… Not as stern? Less like my commanding officer and more like my father. “You’ve finally come into your birthright, so I thought we should mark the occasion. Sit and have a beer with me. You’ve more than earned it.”  
  
“Thank you,” I said, accepting the bottle. I didn’t even have to think about using my power to remove the cap. It was metal; the bottle was glass. Child’s play. I wasn’t all that fond of beer — not that I’d really done more than try it once or twice — but I appreciated the gesture.  
  
Despite everything, despite the fact that there was a part of me that hated him for what he’d driven me to, it felt good to know that I’d pleased him. That he was proud of me. It felt… really good, actually. It wasn’t even that he wasn’t going to discipline me, at least not for failing in this. It was… It was just nice to see him look at me with pride and affection. Like he cared for me. Like I mattered. Like he believed I could do anything I set my mind to.  
  
(Even though I didn’t want to think about the kinds of things he thought I was capable of.)  
  
Dad held out his bottle, and I clinked mine against it before taking a sip. _(Ethanol, carbon dioxide, esters, carboxylic acids, and some long chain hydrocarbon molecules I didn’t know the names of, but which contained some really fascinating ring structures. I was obviously going to have to do some research…)_ Huh. I still couldn’t honestly say I liked the taste, but it was… interesting. And ‘interesting,’ apparently, felt good to my weird new senses.  
  
I’d already vaguely thought about doing some experiments with different types of food and drink, to try to figure out exactly how my sense of taste had been affected, but I made a mental note to start looking up recipes tonight. I was actually looking forward to it.  
  
(If nothing else, at least it was a way of distracting myself from less pleasant things.)  
  
“Penny for your thoughts?”  
  
I looked up, trying not to panic, but Dad didn’t seem angry at me for spacing out. He just looked interested.  
  
“I was just analysing the chemical composition of the beer,” I told him. “With my power,” I added, probably somewhat unnecessarily. “There are some compounds in it with structures I’m not sure I’ve come across before. They’re interesting.”  
  
“I didn’t realise your ability worked through taste as well as touch,” he mused, looking interested. Come to think of it, I supposed I hadn’t actually mentioned that. It hadn’t seemed relevant to what he was training me to do. I felt a pang at my oversight; hoped he wasn’t angry with me for not telling him. Even though I hadn’t been intentionally keeping secrets.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said uncomfortably. I thought a ‘Sir’ was definitely appropriate in this instance. “It didn’t occur to me to mention it. There didn’t seem to be any obvious combat applications.”  
  
“I suppose not.” Thankfully, he seemed more thoughtful than annoyed. I made myself stop holding my breath. “Although,” he continued. “It might come in handy if anyone attempts to poison or drug you. Perhaps you should work on that.”  
  
“I would need to learn the structures in question to be able to recognise them, though,” I ventured cautiously. “Which would pose problems if the compounds are toxic.”  
  
The major downside of my power: I needed skin contact with whatever it was I wanted to analyse or manipulate. And if I wanted to practice analysing substances by taste…  
  
(So much for my dream of being untouchable, I couldn’t help thinking. There may have been a certain amount of bitterness underlying the thought, even if there was also a certain dark humour.)  
  
“I suppose it would,” he agreed.  
  
He took another sip of his beer, and silence fell between us. It was a comfortable silence. It felt… companionable. Friendly. I let myself relax a tiny bit more, letting my power ghost through the glass bottle in my hands, idly trying to figure out which of the trace metals and other elements were responsible for the colour. I noticed Dad watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face. I considered asking him what was on his mind, but decided to let him get around to it in his own time.  
  
If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.  
  
“You’re going to do great things, you know,” he said quietly, startling me. I looked at him, controlling my expression so I didn’t look quite as ‘deer-in-headlights’ as I felt. He didn’t smile, but there was a fond look in his eyes as reached towards me and ran his hand through my hair.  
  
Well, what was left of my hair.  
  
I’d only lost maybe a third or so of my ponytail in the end, but that was easily enough to be noticeable. Especially considering that the ends were now raggedy as fuck. I’d definitely have to do something about that before going back to school. Hell, maybe Dad would finally let me cut it short. This didn’t really seem like the time to bring the subject up, though.  
  
Without meaning to, I found myself leaning into his touch. Outside of the odd victory hug on the soccer pitch, the only physical contact I really had with anyone these days was during training. Or fighting with Lance. (Or being disciplined, but I didn’t want to think about that.) Neither of those tended to involve anything in the way of gentleness. So the all too rare occasions when Dad showed his approval like this, or with a light touch on the shoulder, were something to be savoured.  
  
“I know you have doubts, sometimes,” he continued after a moment. I froze, unable to help myself; unable to stop my eyes widening, ever-so-slightly. My heart thudded painfully in my chest. What did he know? What did he suspect? (How was he going to punish me for my lack of faith?) He did smile then, just a small twitch of his lips, barely there at all before it was gone. “It’s alright,” he told me gently, and patted my shoulder before leaning back against the sofa cushions. (I felt a distant pang of loss as he took his hand away from my hair.) “You’re young yet. It’s only natural.” His eyes sparkled with humour as he added dryly: “I know it might be hard to believe, but I was a teenager too once, you know. I do remember what it’s like to be uncertain of your path. And I definitely know what it’s like to wonder if your old man really knows what the fuck he’s talking about.”  
  
“I didn’t say that,” I protested quickly, worried that I’d somehow been disrespectful, that I’d let my doubts and my fears (my disgust and my loathing) show too clearly.  
  
“It’s alright,” he said again, his tone reassuring. “You can speak freely. I want you to tell me what’s on your mind.”  
  
No, was my instinctive response. No, I really couldn’t. Because ‘doubts’ were one thing, but to tell him that I rejected everything he stood for, that the things he wanted for me horrified me beyond measure? No, I couldn’t tell him that.  
  
But… Maybe I could tell him some of it?  
  
More to the point, I had to tell him something.  
  
“It’s just…” I began, trying to put my thoughts in order. (Trying to make sure that anything that could betray me was buried deep within the recesses of my mind.) I sighed and met his eyes, letting some of my unease show. “Sometimes I worry that I’m not strong enough for what has to be done.”  
  
It felt like a confession, and it I supposed it was.  
  
(If not quite the one it seemed to be.)  
  
(I worried that I wasn’t strong enough to resist becoming what he wanted me to become.)  
  
“You are,” he told me earnestly, patting my hand. “I know you are. And if there is any weakness left in you, then we’ll simply flense it out. You have absolutely nothing to worry about on that score.”  
  
He meant that as reassurance, I told myself, forcibly suppressing my instinctive desire to flinch away. It wasn’t a threat, no matter how much it felt like one. By his own lights, he was genuinely offering to help me.  
  
It was just that, for him, helping and hurting were often the same thing.  
  
Apparently I wasn’t quite as good at suppressing my reaction as I’d hoped, for he sighed and patted my hand again.  
  
“I know I’m hard on you, Astrid,” he told me, his tone serious. “And I know I’ve been particularly tough on you over this past week. But it’s a fucking harsh world out there, and it will chew you up and spit you out given half a chance. I have to give you every advantage I can, and if that means being hard on you, if that means putting you through the wringer again and again and again, then that’s what I’ll do. Whatever it takes.” His lips quirked into a wry smile that didn’t come close to softening the serious look in his eyes. “Even if you end up hating me for it, that’s a price I’m more than willing to pay. So long as you survive.”  
  
Grief flickered in his eyes then, and he glanced down at his beer bottle for a long moment.  
  
“They took your mother from me,” he said, quietly. “I’ll be damned if I let them take you, too. No matter what lengths I have to go to to make sure that you can protect yourself.”  
  
I stared at him, completely at a loss for words. There was… I didn’t know what I was feeling right now. There was just too much; too many conflicting emotions warring for space within me. He’d never… I mean, I knew he was heavily invested in the idea of me being strong, but I just assumed that was because he despised weakness.  
  
I’d never suspected…  
  
I’d never even dreamed he might feel anything like this.  
  
What was I even supposed to say to that?  
  
What was I supposed to feel?  
  
It was… uncomfortable, seeing him this way. Deeply uncomfortable. I was used to thinking of him as this… I don’t know… This force of nature. Untouchable, implacable, indestructible. Larger than life. Now, his head bowed beneath the weight of loss, he looked merely… human.  
  
His grief ran so deep. **I** didn’t even mourn her nearly so strongly, and she was my mother. But then… I didn’t remember her, not really. I’d been about a year old when she died. How could I mourn the loss of something I didn’t remember having? He’d actually known her. And I didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself for not being there when she… when she was killed.  
  
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never been good at… at feelings. I didn’t want to see this, but I somehow couldn’t make myself look away. It felt like there was a pressure building up inside me, driving me to do **something** , to try to fix this somehow.  
  
Slowly, hesitantly, I reached out and awkwardly patted his shoulder.  
  
“We’ll avenge her, Dad,” I assured him, not even sure whether or not I meant it. It was just the only thing I could think of to say that might offer some kind of comfort, cold though it may be.  
  
He looked up at that, meeting my gaze with a fierce smile as he reached over to cover my hand with his.  
  
“Damn straight we will, my girl,” he agreed. “And you’ll be the one to strike the killing blow.” I twitched a little at that, unable to suppress the automatic reaction, but he didn’t seem to notice. There was a feral kind of anticipation in his voice as he continued: “It will be **glorious**. Not to mention the look on that motherfucker’s face when you turn his own metal against him. Right before you rip him to pieces with it.”  
  
I swallowed my nausea and made myself return his smile.  
  
(Could I do that? Could I kill? Even… Even someone like Kaiser?)  
  
(Leaving aside, of course, whether or not I even stood a chance against cape as experienced and powerful as Kaiser. Was I actually capable of setting out to kill someone in cold blood? Even someone like that?)  
  
(I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.)  
  
(And that was assuming Kaiser was, in fact, responsible for Mom’s death, at least in part. Dad believed it, of course — had violently parted ways with the Empire because of that belief; had based this whole damn mission on it — but it wasn’t like he had any proof. What was I going to do, though? Question the very idea that had driven him all these years? That was unlikely to go well for me.)  
  
(Anyway I couldn’t think about that right now.)  
  
He squeezed my hand gently, once, and then let it go. Feeling a little awkward, I pulled it back and wrapped it around my beer bottle. Dad took a sip of his own beer, his expression contemplative.  
  
“I’m not a gentle man,” he said quietly. “And I wasn’t exactly raised to talk about my feelings, or shit like that. But you’re my daughter. And I want you to know that as hard as I am on you, it’s only because I care. And because I know you can take it. You’re tougher than you think.” His tone lightened a little, and a small smile played about the corners of his mouth. “Besides, my old man was hard on me, and it never did me any harm. I’m stronger for it, and so will you be.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, stupidly, not wanting to say more even if I could have found the words.  
  
I was… I felt… I was proud that he thought so highly of me; happy that he cared so deeply. And yet…  
  
And yet.  
  
Did being strong really have to hurt so much?  
  
He gave me a searching look, and I wondered if my feelings had shown through on my face, if he could really read me that well. His expression softening, he leaned forward and carefully, gently, barely even making my bruises twinge, put his arm around my shoulders.  
  
I gaped a little, stunned beyond belief. He’d never hugged me before, not as far as I could remember.  
  
What had brought this on?  
  
“It’s alright,” he told me, and his tone was reassuring. “You have your powers now. You managed to trigger all on your own. You have powers, and you’ve proved that you can use them effectively. That means I don’t have to hurt you like that any more.”  
  
He wasn’t talking about punishment, I knew. That wasn’t **hurting** , not the way he meant it.  
  
He was talking about what he’d done to try to make me trigger.  
  
I hadn’t thought… I hadn’t realised…  
  
What with everything that had happened over the past week, it hadn’t occurred to me that…  
  
That…  
  
I wasn’t going to have to go through that again.  
  
He wouldn’t have to…  
  
He wouldn’t…  
  
It was over.  
  
“The difficult part is over, now,” he said, like an echo of what was going through my head.  
  
It was **over**.  
  
The rush of sheer, unadulterated relief was so intense it was almost overwhelming. I started to relax in a way I hadn’t, quite, since he first started trying to push me to… to gain powers, but then, with a final pat on the shoulder, Dad pulled away again and, almost to himself, murmured:  
  
“At least, it is for you.”  
  
It took me a moment to grasp his meaning, but when the realisation hit, my breath caught in my throat.  
  
 **Lance**.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Dad had pretty much given up on him ever gaining powers, making only sporadic attempts with him over the past couple of years. He’d mostly focused his efforts on me in that regard. But now, after I’d ‘finally’ triggered… Of course that would give him hope. Of course it would. And if there was even the slightest chance he could end up with two cape kids after all…  
  
Shit.  
  
Should I try to warn Lance what was in store for him? Would even he listen to me? Somehow, I doubted he was interested in anything I had to say right now. Anyway, even if he did, would there be any point? It wasn’t like Dad was going to change his mind on this. And once he decided to do something…  
  
“You know,” Dad said, making me push aside my panic (and wasn’t it strange to be feeling something like that on Lance’s behalf?) and focus on him. “Speaking of my old man: he would’ve liked you, I think.” He laughed suddenly. “Once he’d gotten over his outrage at the fact that I’d raised a girl as a fighter, rather than a lady, of course. He was old fashioned like that. Set in his ways. But times have changed now, and so we have to change with them. Respecting tradition is one thing, but letting yourself be chained by it is something else. It’s weakness, not strength.” He gestured towards me with his bottle. “Your mother taught me that.”  
  
“Will you…?” I began, and then stopped, unsure whether or not this was a good idea.  
  
Dad tilted his head curiously. “What is it, Astrid?”  
  
I took a breath and tried again. “Will you tell me about her? About Mom?”  
  
I’d thought about asking him before, a number of times, but I’d never quite gone through with it. He told me things sometimes of his own accord, little titbits of information here and there, but I’d never quite had the courage to raise the subject with him myself.  
  
He went very still, and I felt my heart thud almost painfully in my chest. Had I made a mistake? Had I made him angry?  
  
Was he going to punish me?  
  
But then he sighed softly and seemed to relax. His eyes were distant, like he was seeing something other than the room around us.  
  
“She was something else, your mother. Something special. She burned so very brightly. Being around her was like looking into the sun itself. She had such passion, such **drive** , and she threw herself into life with an enthusiasm that would take your breath away. When she said she was going to do something, then by God she did it; no holding back, no half-measures. And you got with the programme or you got the hell out of her way if you knew what was good for you. Because, trust me: you really didn’t want to stand in her way.”  
  
It was strange, hearing him speak like this. Hearing him wax so rhapsodic about this woman who’d borne me. This stranger whose genes I carried.  
  
He focused his gaze on me, then, chuckling a little.  
  
“She had a temper like you wouldn’t believe. To see her full of righteous fury… Ah, she was magnificent.”  
  
The smile faded, and I couldn’t quite parse the look in his eyes. Nostalgia, maybe. Longing. Other things I couldn’t even begin to interpret and, honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.  
  
The way he talked… It was like he was speaking of a goddess made flesh. Like he almost worshipped her.  
  
How the hell could I possibly live up to that?  
  
How on earth could I measure up to such a paragon?  
  
“There was so much more to her than that, though. She had plans. Big plans. We were going to achieve such great things together, she and I. And the way she talked… She could make you believe that anything was possible. Anything at all.”  
  
The grief filtered in again, roughening his voice as he continued.  
  
“I would have followed that woman into hell itself if she’d asked me to. I might have done it anyway, if it hadn’t been for you and Lance. I might have done something… reckless. But the pair of you… You needed me. I wasn’t going to abandon you. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to let those **fuckers** get away with what they did.”  
  
He sighed deeply, and then his whole posture shifted, his back straightening. His expression was veiled and inscrutable once more. I felt myself sitting up straighter in response, my posture mirroring his automatically. My gut told me that the informal part of this conversation was coming to an end.  
  
“And so, here we are,” he said.  
  
“Here we are, Sir,” I echoed.  
  
He studied me thoughtfully, and I resisted the urge to shift under his scrutiny, wondering what he was looking for.  
  
“You look like her, you know,” he told me. “Maybe not the eyes, but everything else. Your hair.”  
  
He reached out and ran his fingers through it again. I started to relax, only to find myself jerked upright as he suddenly twisted his hand in the ragged mess of it and pulled.  
  
My head was yanked sharply backwards, my scalp burning and various of my injuries protesting the sudden movement. Metal stirred around my arms, but I kept it in check even as I swallowed the pained gasp that tried to force its way out of my throat.  
  
I couldn’t turn my head at all, so I flicked my eyes toward him, desperately searching for some sort of hint as to why he was doing this.  
  
What had I done?  
  
What he was going to do to me?  
  
His expression was hard and his voice, when he spoke, was like ice.  
  
“You broke another rule,” he said, and my stomach twisted with fear. “You know I forbade you from cutting your hair.”  
  
Wait. **That** was what he was pissed off about? That I’d hacked off a chunk of my hair so I could get away when he grabbed me by it? When I’d been convinced that he was going to hurt me worse than he ever had before?  
  
I didn’t recall having a whole lot of alternatives. So what the fuck had I been **supposed** to do? Not even try to break free?  
  
“I wasn’t being intentionally disobedient, Sir,” I said, sounding a little breathless despite my best efforts to keep my voice level. I only hoped I was doing a better job of keeping my expression under control. “I simply took what seemed like the best course of action at the time.”  
  
His grip on my hair tightened, making my scalp feel like it was full of needles.  
  
“I do hope you’re not trying to make excuses,” he said warningly.  
  
“No, Sir.”  
  
I hoped I didn’t sound as pissed off as I felt. Not that I wasn’t afraid, because I surely was, but… Seriously: what did he want from me? It wasn’t that big a deal. It was just hair! It would grow back.  
  
Except it wasn’t about that, was it? It didn’t matter that it had been an act of desperation, that I just hadn’t seen any other options. That I’d simply done what I thought was necessary. It was about the fact that I’d broken one of his rules.  
  
Because disobedience, like failure, was always punished.  
  
“I see that we are going to have to have yet another conversation about disobedience,” he said. No prizes for guessing what kind of ‘conversation’ that would be. He twisted my head around so he could look me directly in the eyes, holding my gaze for what felt like an eternity before saying: “But not today.”  
  
What?  
  
He released me, still holding my gaze as he took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer. I resettled myself on the sofa, relieved beyond all measure to realise that I’d somehow managed to avoid spilling my own beer. I was, however, more than a little disturbed to realise that was at least in part because I’d apparently sealed the mouth of the bottle shut.  
  
I didn’t even remember using my power on it.  
  
But I would have to worry about that later.  
  
Returning Dad’s regard as expressionlessly as I could, I tilted my head a little, ignoring the stab of pain that went through my neck.  
  
“Sir?” I asked.  
  
“Today is a good day,” he said. “I’d rather not spoil it. Besides, we have business to discuss.”  
  
He set his mostly empty beer bottle down on the coffee table. I did the same with my mostly full one, sitting up and doing my best to look attentive.  
  
(I shoved anger back down as best as I could. Losing my temper really wouldn’t help me, and would likely only lead to more pain.)  
  
(Idly, I wondered if my temper was something I’d gotten from my mother. I’d always assumed that it came from seeing Dad’s example, but if she’d also been prone to temper… It was the nature versus nurture argument all over again, I guessed.)  
  
“It’s time for you to start taking more of a command role,” Dad said briskly. “So I’m going to assign a couple of my men to you as your subordinates. Williams and Gill would be best, I think.”  
  
They were two of the newer ones, I recalled. I had a feeling Gill was slightly younger than Williams, but they were both a good few years older than me. Early twenties, maybe? I hadn’t really interacted with them all that much. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to do with subordinates of my very own, but I was sure Dad would let me know.  
  
(My stomach was practically churning with unease right now, but I did my best to ignore it.)  
  
“Plus,” Dad added, almost offhandedly. “Lance will be reporting to you directly from now on.”  
  
I cringed inside at that. Apparently he really had meant what he’d said to Lance after I passed my final exam. God, that was going to be a nightmare.  
  
“For the moment, your mission is simply to gain their allegiance. Make them respect you. Make them obey you. When you’ve succeeded in that, we can move on to the next steps: running your own field operations, and building up a squad of your own. Don’t concern yourself with that right now, though. Just focus on achieving your objective.”  
  
How the hell was I supposed to do that? His men weren’t going to listen to me. I was just their commander’s teenage daughter. And I didn’t even want to think about Lance’s likely reaction if I actually gave him an order. He’d probably beat me black and blue just for trying.  
  
At least, that’s what he would have done before.  
  
(Against my will, the memory of what I’d done to him earlier rose to the surface, and I had to suppress a shudder.)  
  
But… I couldn’t fail. Failure would be punished.  
  
“Do you have any advice, Sir?” I asked.  
  
“It’ll be an uphill struggle at first,” he said. “Your age will count against you, as will the fact that you’re physically weaker than them. Williams will also likely take issue with the fact that you’re female. And none of them — with the possible exception of Lance — really know what you’re capable of. So they’re going to challenge you. To challenge your authority. But that’s a good thing.”  
  
“It is, Sir?” I asked, confused. How was any of this supposed to be helpful?  
  
“It will give you the opportunity to smack them down hard. Which you will do brutally and without mercy. Pain is not the point of the exercise, but it is an excellent way of making them fear the consequences of displeasing you. And, by extension, making them fear you. Do that effectively enough, and they will hesitate before challenging you again. They’ll obey. And you will reward their obedience. After that, it’s a simple matter of reinforcement. Punish disobedience, disrespect and failure, and do so swiftly and severely. Reward obedience, respect, and success. The more they obey you, the easier it **becomes** for them to obey. The more normal it seems to them. People are, after all, creatures of habit. The trick is to make sure that they develop the habits that you want.”  
  
I listened with both mounting horror, and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.  
  
This was awful. This was terrible. This was…  
  
Wasn’t it exactly what he did with me and Lance?  
  
“If absolutely necessary, you can pit them against each other. Make them compete for your favour. Make them compete not to earn your disfavour. If they’re focused on each other as rivals, then they’re less likely to unite against you as a common enemy. A word of caution, though: use such divide and conquer techniques sparingly. Your subordinates still have to work together, after all. If their rivalry is too pronounced, they may find it difficult to do so effectively.”  
  
This part also seemed terribly, terribly familiar.  
  
(I couldn’t help wondering, in a distant part of my mind: had Dad deliberately pushed Lance into blowing up at me earlier? Had he told him he’d have to obey me because it would make him lash out? Because I’d have to ’smack him down hard’? Surely not. Surely he wouldn’t have done something so… so **reckless**? Not when I was wound up tighter than an eight day clock.)  
  
(I could have killed Lance; just lost control of my power and ripped him apart. I could have…)  
  
(No. No, I didn’t believe it. Dad wouldn’t have risked Lance like that. Not his son.)  
  
(Even though it would hardly have been the first time he’d provoked a confrontation between us.)  
  
(But that was before I had powers; when the worst either of us would suffer was a few bruises. He wouldn’t do that now. Not when even I didn’t know if I could keep my power under control.)  
  
“You’re going to have to study them: figure out what makes them tick. Their fears. Their wants. Their needs. Everybody breaks differently, but the important thing is what you shape them into when you put them back together again. The trick lies in ensuring that you break them enough to ensure their loyalty and obedience without breaking them so much that you compromise their usefulness.”  
  
He wanted me to **break** these men? To… to make them obey me because they feared what I’d do to them if they didn’t?  
  
What the actual fuck?  
  
Did he really think I was capable of that?  
  
That wasn’t even…  
  
I’d seen how he commanded his men. The bulk of them had a veneer of professionalism and had a tendency to claim they were ex-military, recruited both for their skills and for their particular views on how the world worked. On how it should work. They respected him, sure. But fear? That didn’t ring true at all. And I certainly never saw him smack any of *them* down.  
  
But then… He’d already established himself as a credible leader. As a credible threat. He’d proven himself to be both strong and skilled, and they respected those qualities. They already recognised his authority.  
  
Perhaps more importantly, he was a grown-ass man, not a teenage girl.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
“Finally, the most important thing to keep in mind is that you can never, ever show weakness, or hesitation, or doubt. As far as your subordinates are concerned, you have all the answers. You are never at a loss. Fake it if you have to, but don’t ever let them believe you to be anything less that absolutely in control at all times.”  
  
So, all I had to do was seem omniscient, invincible and all-powerful.  
  
Great.  
  
Dad looked at me expectantly. I looked back, completely at a loss. I had to say something, I knew. But I racked my brains over and over again, and the only thing I came up with was:  
  
“What about Lance, Sir?”  
  
“He’ll make an excellent second in command for you once you’ve ensured that he knows and accepts his place.”  
  
He sounded like he was trying to reassure me. Like he actually thought I was concerned about whether or not my brother would make a satisfactory lieutenant. Like it never even occurred to him that my concerns might be more to do with, oh, I don’t know: the fact that he was expecting me to break my own brother to obedience was fucked up beyond all recognition, reason and reckoning.  
  
Lance was his **son**.  
  
My thoughts in chaos, I almost flinched as Dad reached out towards me again, but all he did was pat me lightly on the shoulder.  
  
“You made a good start earlier,” he said. “You successfully deduced and exploited one of his fears. You also proved that, despite his greater physical strength, you’re still more than capable of taking him down. That’s a good foundation for you to build on.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. I concentrated on not throwing up. “Don’t permanently damage him. A few scars are fine, but don’t break anything, and don’t give him any serious injuries. Try to avoid marking his face if you can. Other than that…” He shrugged. “Do what you have to. I have every confidence that he’ll fall in line. And with him at your back, you’ll be able to achieve anything that you set your mind to.” The smile that flickered over his face then was proud, maybe even fond. “Just like your mother and me.”  
  
Oh God.  
  
I really was going to be sick.  
  
It was only with a phenomenal effort of will that I managed to keep the contents of my stomach on the inside. And my inner turmoil — I hoped — far away from my face.  
  
“Any other questions?”  
  
“No, Sir.”  
  
My voice was quiet, mainly because I was worried it might shake noticeably if I attempted to speak any louder.  
  
“Very well.” He nodded with what looked like approval. “Let’s move on, then. Have you given any thought to your cape name?”  
  
I heard Lance’s voice again in my mind, bitter and filled with hate as he said: ‘Maybe you should call yourself Garrotte.’  
  
I cringed inside as I quickly shook my head.  
  
“No, Sir. I’m afraid I haven’t.”  
  
“That’s alright,” he said, sounding almost indulgent. “You’ve had quite a full week. But I do have a suggestion for you.”  
  
“Sir?” I asked, when he seemed to be waiting for a response from me.  
  
“Razorwire,” he said succinctly.  
  
Razorwire, I echoed in my mind, turning the name over and over in my thoughts, seeing how it fit. It sounded… It sounded like a villain’s name. A killer’s name. The name of someone who wouldn’t hesitate to rip someone apart just for getting in her way.  
  
I hated it with a passion.  
  
“It’s a good name, Sir,” was what I said out loud.  
  
It wasn’t like I had any alternative suggestions, after all. And he was clearly hoping I’d choose it.  
  
“Good,” he said approvingly, and patted me on the shoulder. “You’ll need a costume too, of course, but I know some people who can help with that. I’ll make the arrangements.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, mechanically.  
  
I just wanted this conversation to be over. I wanted this whole damn day to be over. I wanted to have that shower and then sleep for about a week. But he must be finished now, right? He was going to dismiss me?  
  
Surely he didn’t have anything else to throw at me?  
  
“There’s just one final piece of business now,” he said.  
  
My heart sank.  
  
“Yes, Sir?”  
  
He met my gaze, and the ice in his eyes chilled me to the bone, the smile on his face anything but pleasant.   
  
“Your Blooding," he said, and dread pooled like tar in my chest. “Now, of course, it will have to be much more impressive…”


	10. Claustrophobia 1.10

For the second time that day, I had to use all of my willpower to keep my hands from shaking as I turned and walked away.  
  
For the second time that day, I stumbled along in a daze, my mind reeling with a thousand and one things I wouldn’t, **couldn’t** say out loud.  
  
For the second time that day, I collapsed in a heap, my whole body trembling uncontrollably.  
  
I didn’t even make it as far as the bed this time; barely even keeping it together long enough to close my bedroom door behind me before my legs gave way and I crumpled to the ground.  
  
The impact probably should have hurt, but in that moment I was barely even aware of my own body.  
  
All I knew was the white-hot blaze of panic as it consumed my thoughts.  
  
All I knew was the pulse of power that exploded from me in a wave.  
  
All I knew was the information that started flooding into me; a raging torrent that I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.  
  
 _The floorboards, the room, the floor, the house…_  
  
 _Rooms, roof, walls, floors, foundations, pipework, circuitry…_  
  
 _Carpet, wood, plastic, concrete, plaster, sealant, insulation, metal, glass…_  
  
 _Nylon, polypropylene, cellulose, polyvinyl chloride, polyethylene, polyurethane, various hydrocarbons, calcium dioxide, silicon dioxide, aluminium oxide, steel, copper…_  
  
 _Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, iron, chromium, aluminium, manganese…_  
  
 _Atoms made molecules made microstructures made macrostructures made **everything** and I could feel it all, every single bond holding every single part of the house together, and it was the easiest thing in the world to reach out and claim them as my own. To shift them around, to stretch them and compress them and twist them and change them. To rip them apart…_  
  
Fuck!  
  
What was I **doing**?!  
  
Desperation gave me the strength to reel my power back in, to stop it before it… To stop **myself** before I brought the house down around my ears.  
  
Oh God.  
  
Oh God.  
  
That had been so close. If I had…  
  
 **Fuck**.  
  
Carefully, cautiously, I felt around with my power, keeping my touch as light as I could, sending it ghosting through the building I’d come uncomfortably close to demolishing with me — with us — in it. There was no major damage as far as I could tell. A few new weak spots here and there, some minor cracking and flaking. Nothing that anyone else should have noticed, I thought.  
  
I hoped.  
  
But it really had been too fucking close for comfort. And, even now, my power was straining at its leash, practically begging me to let go and just… lash out.  
  
God, I really, really, **really** wanted to break something right now.  
  
Instead, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to do what I could to repair the damage I’d caused, even though it felt like my power was fighting me every step of the way. I had the uncomfortable feeling that it was only by the skin of my teeth that I was managing to keep it more or less reined in, that even now it was surging and straining at its restraints, that even the smallest crack in my control would let it break free.  
  
Even the metal on my arms wouldn’t stay still, flowing endlessly around, over and over, extruding wires and filaments and blades, trying to reach out and…  
  
No. I wouldn’t let it.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
On the plus side, having to force myself to concentrate so damn hard had helped me claw back some semblance of rational thought from the terror that even now threatened to drag me back under.  
  
Distantly, I was aware of my heart thudding painfully in my chest, my lungs heaving and straining for air that didn’t seem to contain enough oxygen. I thought I might have been hyperventilating.  
  
It didn’t seem to matter.  
  
This was so fucked up. Everything about this situation was fucked up beyond all recognition. It was… It wasn’t **fair**! Everything I’d been through; reaching breaking point, triggering — and doing it the natural way, after all, despite all the **work** Dad had put in over the years trying to force the issue. Hell week. The final exam. (Lance.) All of that, and what did it get me in the end?  
  
Sweet fuck all.  
  
I’d come full circle. I was right back in the same place I’d been just over a week ago: caught between a rock and a hard place. Except, no. Not quite. It wasn’t exactly the same.  
  
Now things were even worse.  
  
Now I was even more thoroughly fucked.  
  
Shit. **Shit**. Dammit all to hell!  
  
I thought having powers was supposed to make things **better** , not worse. I thought… I thought… I didn’t know what I thought.  
  
My power surged again, and it belatedly occurred to me that I should probably get up off the floor. Maintaining skin contact with any part of the house seemed like it was just asking for trouble right now. And I shuddered to think how Dad would punish me if I destroyed our home.  
  
Far too restless to stay still, I started pacing back and forth, my thoughts racing as I desperately tried to come up with a way out of my predicament. I’d really been hoping to leave this until tomorrow, after a good — or, hopefully, at least not too awful — night’s sleep. After I’d had the chance to get my head on straight and clear my thoughts. Except now it looked like I wasn’t going to get that chance.  
  
Because of course I wasn’t.  
  
Because that, apparently, was the way the world worked.  
  
Because now I’d fucking triggered, now I had powers, my father wasn’t just expecting me to kill one man. No, merely committing one murder wouldn’t be nearly **impressive** enough for my ‘debut’ as Razorwire. So now he was expecting me to kill a whole fucking **bunch** of people.  
  
No, not even just kill. Because that, apparently, also wouldn’t be enough. He… He wanted me to make a show of it. To make it memorable. To make it **impressive**.  
  
I didn’t even have the words to describe just how very fucked up that was.  
  
Dad wanted to get me blooded as soon as possible, he’d said. It would help me gain the respect and allegiance of my men, he’d said. There was no point in putting it off, he’d said. It was best to get it done while the week’s training was still fresh in my mind, he’d said.  
  
So he expected me to start my planning tonight.  
  
And the only, **only** saving grace in this whole sorry shitshow was that tonight was **just** supposed to be planning. **Not** execution.  
  
Oh God. That really was a piss-poor choice of words. Or a horribly, horribly appropriate one.  
  
No, the **execution** was supposed to happen sometime in the next week. And it was… If he had his way it was going to be bad. Really bad. He wanted me to start by bringing a building down. While it was occupied. And if anyone survived that, if they made it out… He wanted… I was supposed to rip them apart.  
  
It was supposed to be a bloodbath.  
  
Fuck!  
  
My power surged again and I couldn’t keep it back and I wanted, **needed** so badly to break something, to rip it apart and shred it and grind it to dust, and so without even thinking about it, I spun around and grabbed one of the pillows off my bed. A quick burst of my power, and it was nothing but a dense cloud of confetti, minuscule scraps of cloth that fluttered down to coat the carpet.  
  
 **God** , that felt so good, but it wasn’t enough, wasn’t **nearly** enough, and so I reached out again and-  
  
No!  
  
No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t lose control. I wouldn’t. I controlled my power. I would be **damned** if I would let it control me.  
  
No matter how very, very badly I wanted to lash out right now.  
  
I resumed pacing; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.  
  
My room wasn’t a bad size, but right now it felt like a prison cell, the walls closing in on me; confining, suffocating.  
  
I wasn’t going to kill those people. Of course I wasn’t. I couldn’t. More importantly, I **wouldn’t**. It was… It was **wrong**. They hadn’t done anything. They weren’t hurting anyone. They were just living their lives, going about their business, trying to do the best they could in this sorry little scabrous **shithole** of a town. They didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t their fault that there were people out there that hated them just because of the colour of their skin.  
  
It wasn’t their fault that Dad was a fucking **nazi**!  
  
I froze.  
  
I didn’t usually let myself think that. I didn’t usually allow my disgust and revulsion at the way he saw the world to rise so close to the surface. I kept my rebellious thoughts safely locked away inside my head and tried to keep the poison out of my own mind as best as I could. But now…  
  
Now…  
  
I hated this. I hated **him**. This was just sick. So, so fucking sick and twisted. How could he ask this of me? How could he expect me to…  
  
Except he wasn’t just asking, was he? It was an order. A direct order.  
  
And… And I was… I was going to have to disobey him.  
  
My hands were shaking, I realised suddenly. No, my whole body was shaking. And when did it get so fucking cold in here? It felt like there was ice lodged deep in my bones, and I ached in a way that had absolutely nothing at all to do with my bruises.  
  
I was terrified.  
  
I would’ve said I’d never been so scared in all my life but, well, there was last Saturday to contend with.  
  
Because I’d been here before. This exact same decision, more or less. The choice that was no choice at all.  
  
Obey and be damned. Refuse and be broken. And then be damned anyway.  
  
Because it wasn’t as simple as just saying no. Of course it fucking wasn’t. Dad wasn’t exactly big on giving me **choices**. I’d refuse. And he’d… He’d hurt me. He’d hurt me and he’d keep on hurting me until I reached a point where I’d do almost anything to make the pain stop. And then he’d give me my orders.  
  
And if I somehow still refused? If there was enough of me left at that point to keep on resisting?  
  
Then he’d just hurt me even more.  
  
I was tough. I was a survivor. I had a really fucking high pain threshold and I could endure a hell of a lot. I **had** endured a hell of a lot. But I knew I couldn’t hold out indefinitely. No one could. If there was one fundamental truth this life had taught me, it was that, one way or another, everybody breaks. And he **knew** me. He knew what I was afraid of, and he knew exactly what kinds of pressures to bring to bear.  
  
It wouldn’t even be the first time he’d broken me.  
  
And as many times as I’d broken and broken and pulled myself back together again and got up and kept on fucking **fighting** … I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do that this time.  
  
This time would be different.  
  
This time, I wasn’t sure there’d be anything left of me afterwards.  
  
Because I wasn’t a killer. And I certainly wasn’t the kind of person who was capable of murdering a whole group of innocent people in cold blood. So, if he could push me to the point where I would actually do that, if he could force me to go against the principles and values I’d fought so fucking hard to take as my own, then I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t be **me** anymore. I wouldn’t be Astrid.  
  
I’d be Razorwire.  
  
I’d be a monster.  
  
And I… I didn’t know how to stop it.  
  
I didn’t know what to do.  
  
My power surged again, along with the dreadful, intoxicating urge to **destroy** , and without even thinking about it I whirled and brushed my hand over my laundry hamper, collapsing it in a heap of splinters and dust.  
  
Since when did breaking things feel so fucking **good**?  
  
It still wasn’t enough, not even close to what I really wanted, but it took enough of the edge off that I could dial it back down again, buy myself some space to think.  
  
Could I run? Just pack up whatever I could carry and just get the fuck out of here? He couldn’t break me if I wasn’t here. If he couldn’t get his hands on me.  
  
Except… Except I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I had no one and nothing in the whole wide world except for Dad and Lance. No friends, no ties. No one I could turn to. I was alone.  
  
Dad and Lance… I had no illusions about them being good people. I wasn’t an idiot. I wasn’t some innocent, naive child. I knew they’d both done awful, terrible, even downright evil things; especially Dad. But they were still my family. Family was important to me. **They** were important to me. Just because I hated them, that didn’t mean I didn’t also love them. And this life of ours, as fucked up as it was, was all I’d ever known. I didn’t know how to live any other way. I didn’t know how to be anything else.  
  
The thought of leaving behind everything that was familiar… I couldn’t lie: it scared me.  
  
Anyway, where could I even run to that Dad couldn’t find me? That he couldn’t hunt me down and drag me back?  
  
And if I tried to run and failed…  
  
A fragment of memory briefly flashed to the surface of my mind. Not begging — **never** that — but promising over and over again that I’d be good, that I’d be obedient, that I wouldn’t try to run again. Not ever.  
  
And I never, ever had.  
  
Despair filled me like lead, sapping the strength from my limbs, threatening to drag me back down to the ground. Terror kept me upright, kept me moving, my feet still carrying me aimlessly back and forth, back and forth. All the while, my thoughts chased themselves around and around my mind in ever decreasing circles.  
  
I’d defy him. I’d tell him no. I’d fight. Of **course** I’d fight. There was no fucking way I was going to just roll over, not on something like this. So I’d fight as hard as I could.  
  
But I knew I couldn’t win.  
  
I could run.  
  
But he’d find me. He’d drag me back and he’d discipline me and then I’d be right back where I started, only with even more pain.  
  
I could… I could fight him physically? Try to… Try to kill him, maybe?  
  
But he was my **father**.  
  
But I **wasn’t** a killer.  
  
And… And even if I could bring myself to… to actually attempt… patricide, what fucking use would it be? Earlier today, I’d done my level best to tear him to pieces, and it had barely even slowed him down. I’d seen someone pump him full of bullets, once. Didn’t do a damn thing to stop him killing every last motherfucker who’d seen that he was a cape.  
  
(God. That had been… That had been bad.)  
  
(My gorge rose and I shoved that memory away, banished it to the deepest recesses of my mind.)  
  
So, I couldn’t kill him; couldn’t hurt him in any way that fucking **mattered**.  
  
The only other way out I refused to even contemplate.  
  
Which brought me full circle, right the hell back to where I’d begun.  
  
I was so very, very fucked.  
  
No way forward. No way to retreat. No goddamn way out of this trap that I could see.  
  
No chance.  
  
No hope.  
  
No future but pain and damnation.  
  
And I couldn’t… I couldn’t…  
  
My power **screamed** and it was all I could do not to scream with it. Metal flowed and the fibres of my clothes started to stir, and I had to let it **out** , and so I lunged forward and turned my desk to dust. And even that pitifully small act of destruction felt so good — and still nowhere even close to **enough** — that I dusted the chair next to it, and started to reach for the wall itself, and the pressure was building inside me again and-  
  
Wait.  
  
 **Wait**.  
  
What was that?  
  
Sitting atop the pile of dust that had been my desk, there among the various other objects it had held, but which hadn’t been part of it (and I knew now that that was important, but I couldn’t think about the implications right at this moment) was a small white rectangle of cardboard.  
  
Huh.  
  
My power subsided, my metal and the fibres of my clothes returning to quiescence against my skin without me even having to fight for it. Even the blind panic eased off a little, allowing me to catch my breath and **think** , rather than just go round and round and round in circles that went nowhere.  
  
I bent and snagged Gallant’s business card from the wreckage, turning it over and over in my fingers.  
  
I had completely forgotten I had this.  
  
Rather, I’d done my level best to put it completely out of my mind during Hell Week. If I didn’t think about it — or, rather, what it represented — then I wouldn’t change my behaviour. I wouldn’t risk giving away the fact that I was keeping a secret.  
  
I still didn’t know why I’d actually kept the card itself. I’d already memorised the contact details on it, as well as storing the number in my phone, under the entry for one of the girls on the soccer team. I didn’t need the physical object. More than that, it was a liability. Between Dad’s infrequent searches for contraband, and Lance’s more frequent intrusions looking for something he could use to get me in trouble, it simply wasn’t safe here.  
  
But, for some reason, I hadn’t been able to make myself get rid of it. Instead, I’d used my power to make a hiding space between the brackets holding my cheap, flat-pack desk together. And it had remained there, out of sight and out of mind, until I ripped my desk apart.  
  
On some level, I quailed at the thought of what Dad would do to me when he discovered the evidence of my little spree of destruction. I quailed more at the thought of what he’d do if he found out I’d kept the fact that I’d spoken with a Ward from him. But that didn’t matter. None of that mattered. Because now, for the first time in a long time, I felt an emotion that seemed so foreign, so strange, so alien that I almost didn’t recognise it.  
  
 **Hope**.  
  
I was moving almost before I realised I’d made a decision, pulling out my recently-emptied go-bag and rifling through my wardrobe and drawers, triaging my clothes. In a distant part of my mind, I thanked my lucky stars that the relevant pieces of furniture had been spared any of my wanton acts of destruction. Most of my thoughts, however, were occupied with figuring out what I needed to take with me.  
  
Okay, enough clothes. What else?  
  
Schoolwork. Textbooks. Not all of them — no sense in weighing myself down too much — but the ones I thought I couldn’t do without.  
  
Because I might be running away from home so my nazi supervillain father didn’t turn me into a fucking psycho killer, but that was absolutely no excuse to let my grades slip.  
  
I clapped my hand to my mouth, stifling a completely incongruous burst of laughter.  
  
Was this what hysteria felt like?  
  
Well, whatever the fuck it was, I didn’t have time for it.  
  
I needed to focus.  
  
I hesitated briefly over one of the photos of my mother that had pride of place on top of my dresser, but decided to leave it be. Too risky. I did, however, allow myself the pendant that had been hers, that Dad had given to me a few years ago. In all honesty, I didn’t really know why I took it, but it wasn’t worth spending time on second-guessing myself, so into the bag it went.  
  
Next, I pushed aside the old sweaters piled up in the corner of my wardrobe, prying up the loose board to reveal my pitiful little stash of contraband. Some money I’d saved from my allowance — not as much as I would’ve liked, but it was better than nothing. A handful of books that would definitely **not** meet with Dad’s approval. (I’d almost had a heart attack when Lance barged in on me once while I was reading Parable of the Sower. Luckily for me, he didn’t have the first clue who Octavia Butler was. Anyway, I’d distracted him from it by picking a fight.) A Miss Militia pin I’d randomly found lying on the sidewalk one day and decided to keep. A timetable for the Greyhound out of town. A couple of other odds and ends.  
  
I took it all.  
  
Okay. Did I need anything else? I couldn’t think of anything. No, wait: there were a couple of things.  
  
I grabbed the sunglasses, cap and scarf I’d picked up on the Boardwalk last Saturday. Not the best mask ever, but it would have to do.  
  
Right. Did I need to leave anything behind? Fake ID, probably. Best not to be carrying anything obviously illegal, just in case. (‘Don’t give them an excuse,’ I remembered Dad telling me. ‘You can’t afford to get a record.’ It was why he never let me carry a gun. Not that I’d ever wanted to, of course. I’d actually been relieved that he’d forbidden it.) My knife? No, I could reshape that if need be. (During the past week, I’d done that over and over again until Dad was satisfied with my precision. I was just glad I hadn’t ruined it. I really liked that knife. The grip was perfect for my hand — maybe even more so now, in fact — and the balance was excellent. Dad had given it to me a couple of years ago; a reward for doing well at blade work. I’d treasured it like I treasured all indications that he was pleased with me.)  
  
My metal?  
  
No. No way. Even the thought of divesting myself of it brought me out in a cold sweat. I’d rather go naked than lose the metal. It stayed. But… maybe I could make it look like jewellery or something? I had a go as I finished packing the last few things, ending up with something vaguely modern art-ish. Whatever. I could figure it out en route. For now…  
  
I was probably about as ready as I would ever be.  
  
Well, not **ready** , not really, but I’d finished packing. And the longer I lingered here, the greater the chance I’d get caught. And I…  
  
Metal flexed and stirred against my skin.  
  
I **really** couldn’t afford to get caught.  
  
Oh God. I was really doing this, wasn’t I? I was **running**. Again.  
  
My vision darkened, my head swam, and for an awful, terrible, terrifying moment, I thought I might actually faint. But then I pushed it aside, pushed it all aside, and made myself focus.  
  
It wasn’t like last time, I told myself. This time, I wouldn’t be on my own. This time, I would have help. This time, I would have somewhere to go.  
  
At least… At least I hoped I would. I prayed I would.  
  
(Please, by all that’s holy, let Gallant pick up the phone. Please let him be willing and able to help me. **Please**.)  
  
Right. Enough dallying. Time to get the fuck out of here.  
  
Both front and back doors were out, so it would have to be the window. Fortunately, my room was at the rear of the house. I picked up my bag and started for the window, then changed my mind and took a detour towards the door. It didn’t have a lock — Lance and I weren’t allowed to have locks on our doors — but I thought I could use my power to…  
  
Aha!  
  
A light touch, a thought, and the door latch fused to the piece of metal it fitted into when the door was closed. Whatever the hell that was called. A second thought, and I fused the hinges, too. None of that would stop Dad for long, but even a second or so might make all the difference if he came up before I’d managed to get out.  
  
 **Now** I was ready to go.  
  
Crossing the room again, I opened the window, checked the perimeter — no witnesses that I could see — and used my metal to lower my bag down into the back garden. I thought about doing the same for myself but, honestly, it was easier just to climb out, hang down and drop.  
  
I let my knees bend as I hit the ground, diffusing as much of the impact as I could. It still jarred my bruises, but that was okay. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t cope with, which was just as fucking well. Because now…  
  
Now I had to **run**.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The journey across town was almost dreamlike; a peculiar mix of fuzziness and razor-edged clarity. Running. Walking. Blending into crowds. Taking buses. Breaking my trail. Not travelling with a specific destination in mind so much as just trying to put enough distance between myself and home — my former home — so I could stop and make that phone call without feeling like Dad was going to come and drag me off to the basement at any second.  
  
(Even though I wasn’t sure there was enough space in the whole world for that.)  
  
At every turn, I half-expected to hear his voice ordering me to stop, to feel his hand closing around my wrist. (Or my throat.) Every time I saw someone who looked even vaguely looked like him — or like Lance, or like any of his men — I felt my heart leap into my mouth.  
  
Did I say the journey was dreamlike?  
  
Maybe I meant nightmarish.  
  
Eventually, though, found myself stumbling to a halt outside a café in a somewhat more upscale part of town than where we lived. The smell of cooking food made my stomach rumble, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten anything since the cold bacon roll hours ago. I looked around, checking the perimeter, assessing sightlines, making sure I didn’t see anyone I recognised.  
  
Good enough.  
  
A short while later, I was ensconced at a table with a mug of black coffee in front of me, waiting somewhat impatiently for my food. And maybe I shouldn’t really have been spending money if it wasn’t absolutely essential, but fuck it. I needed this.  
  
Anyway, maybe a hot drink and some hot food would help me to stop feeling so damn cold.  
  
I surreptitiously glanced around the café. There were other customers, but it wasn’t overly crowded. A small group of people in their twenties who looked like college students. A couple having a very quiet but very obvious argument. A middle-aged man with a laptop. None of them seemed paying any attention to me whatsoever.  
  
Right. Time to do this.  
  
I pulled out my phone, took another glance around, took a deep breath, and dialled.  
  
It rang once.  
  
Okay, that was fine. No one got to their phone on the first ring  
  
Twice.  
  
My pulse started to pick up. It was okay, though. Sometimes it took a little while to dig a phone out of a pocket or whatever.  
  
Three times.  
  
I seriously started to panic. I was risking everything on this. If it didn’t pan out, I didn’t know what I’d do. But maybe he just hadn’t heard it. Maybe it was in another room or something.  
  
Four times.  
  
Oh God. I was so fucked. I was-  
  
“Hello?”  
  
Holy shit! He answered. He actually answered.  
  
I was so stunned that it took me a moment to find my voice.  
  
“Hi,” I said, and then completely blanked. I hadn’t really planned what to do after this point. I wasn’t sure I’d even really believed that he’d actually pick up the phone. I just hadn’t had any other options. And… if I didn’t say something now, he was going to hang up. “This is Astrid. We met last week.” I had to take a breath. “You accosted me in the bathroom.”  
  
Oh God. Why had I said that? I wanted to make sure he remembered me, but surely there must have been something else I could have said. Something better. Like, well, pretty much anything.  
  
“I remember,” he said, and he sounded amused. “Hello again, Astrid. It’s good to hear from you.”  
  
In the background, I heard another voice, a girl.  
  
“Seriously?” She sounded… peeved. “You’re taking a phone call **now**? From another girl?”  
  
Well, shit. It sounded like I’d managed to interrupt him in the middle of a date. I just hoped his girlfriend wasn’t the jealous type. More importantly, I hoped that Gallant wasn’t too pissed off with me. I couldn’t afford to make him angry. I **really** needed his help right now.  
  
I had to swallow to try to clear the sudden lump in my throat.  
  
“I’m sorry to disturb you, especially at the weekend. But you said I could call if I wanted to talk, or…” I had to stop and take a breath. “Or if I needed help.”  
  
(Would he think I was weak? I hoped he didn’t think I was weak. Even if I felt pretty damn weak right now.)  
  
“Don’t worry about it. I meant it when I said you could call. You’re not disturbing me.” He sounded sincere. Reassuring, even. Did he mean it, or was he just a good actor? There was a pause, like he was giving me the chance to respond, but I couldn’t find the words. After the silence started to stretch on just a little too long, he continued in a soft tone. “Do you need help, Astrid?”  
  
I nodded wordlessly, and then immediately felt like a fool.  
  
“Yes,” I said, and the word was barely more than a whisper. “I’m in trouble. I can’t go back home, and I don’t have anywhere else to go. There’s no one else I can call. I…” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat and tried again. “I don’t know what to do.”  
  
Christ, could I possibly sound any more pathetic? Way to make a good impression, **idiot**.  
  
“Are you safe where you are?”  
  
I was a little surprised he hadn’t asked me **why** I couldn’t go home, but I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t something I really wanted to talk about right now. Or ever, if I could possibly help it.  
  
“Yes. I think so.” For the moment, anyway.  
  
“Are you hurt?”  
  
“No,” I said, but then I shifted in my seat and my everything complained at me. I found myself amending my response to: “Not really.” I regretted the words the moment they were out of my mouth, and hastened to clarify. “Just surface damage. Nothing serious.”  
  
There was a pause. I wondered what was going through his mind.  
  
“If you don’t mind, I think it might be best if you came into the PRT building,” he said cautiously. “It’s safe, it’s private and there are medical facilities if you need them.” The refusal was already on the tip of my tongue, automatic, but I swallowed it back, making myself actually think about his suggestion. Was it really such a bad idea? Dad surely wouldn’t be able to get to me inside the PRT building. He wouldn’t take that risk. And… And it wasn’t like I hadn’t known this road would likely lead there in the end. “This isn’t committing you to anything,” he continued, apparently taking my silence for reluctance. Which, I guessed, wasn’t too far off the mark. “And I promise I’m not going to put pressure on you to join the Wards. I just think-“  
  
“What if I want to join?” I interrupted. “At least potentially.”  
  
I couldn’t honestly say it was a possibility I’d ever seriously considered before, but given my circumstances I’d be a fool not to consider it now. I liked to think I wasn’t a fool.  
  
“Then, if you want, we can discuss that when we meet.”  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask him, and it would be easier to gauge his reactions in person. Even with that helmet of his.  
  
“Anyway,” he said, briskly. “For the moment, I think the important thing is to get you somewhere safe. Is the PRT building okay with you, or would you prefer somewhere else?”  
  
I thought about it, but I couldn’t honestly think of an alternative.  
  
So, even though it felt like I was agreeing to walk into enemy territory, like I was painting a target on my own back, I took a deep breath and said:  
  
“No, your suggestion’s fine.”  
  
What else could I say? There was a feeling building inside me, like running downhill. Like letting gravity pull you further and faster than you could manage under your own steam, until your feet were practically flying over the ground so that you weren’t sure you could stop even if you wanted to, and God knew what would happen when you hit the bottom. I’d set something in motion here, and I had no idea where it was going to end. All I could do was keep moving and try not to fall.  
  
Still, I consoled myself. Whatever happened from here on out, it had to be better than what would have happened if I’d stayed. If I hadn’t run.  
  
Didn’t it?


	11. Claustrophobia 1.11

The conversation didn’t last much longer after that. What else was there to say, really? Gallant asked me if I wanted him to come and pick me up, or if I wanted to meet him there. I opted for the former. I was quite some distance from the PRT building, and the thought of another journey spent looking over my shoulder the whole way… No. Anyway, at least in here it was warm. I thought it was, anyway. It hadn’t managed to thaw me out just yet, but I didn’t seem to be freezing any further. So I gave him my location and he said he’d be here in about an hour or so.  
  
All I had to do now was wait.  
  
My food — very late lunch? early dinner? whatever — finally arrived, so that occupied my attention for a good, oh, few minutes or so. I was so hungry I practically inhaled it. Unfortunately, I then had nothing to do but sit and stew in my own juices. I tried reading — and didn’t it feel weird having one of my precious forbidden books out in the open where anyone could see — but I just couldn’t concentrate. I tried people-watching, but that just led to paranoid wonderings about whether any of them were paying just a little too much attention to me.  
  
I was **pretty** sure they weren’t, but that didn’t stop me worrying.  
  
Yeah, I was definitely approaching tinfoil hat territory today.  
  
I ordered a dessert I didn’t want. No sense in risking having the staff turf me out for taking table space away from paying customers. I ate the dessert because I’d paid for it, and I wasn’t raised to waste money like that. Or food, for that matter. Now that I no longer felt like my insides were cannibalising themselves from hunger, though, I could actually take my time and savour the confection, which turned out to be surprisingly good. My power liked it too, apparently, and mapping out its molecular structure served as a pretty good distraction.  
  
Not that I could let myself sink too deeply into my power, of course. I had to stay alert. I had to be on my guard. I wasn’t in the PRT building yet, which meant I wasn’t anywhere near safe. (Not that I was really expecting to be safe in the PRT building, but at least Dad was unlikely to get to me there.)  
  
Even so, I still almost jumped out of my skin when my phone rang. I fumbled for it, suddenly terrified beyond measure that it was Gallant saying that he’d changed his mind, that he wasn’t coming, that he couldn’t help me. That I was on my own.  
  
That probably meant this was the first time ever that I was relieved to see that the caller was Dad.  
  
Briefly.  
  
But then…  
  
Shit!  
  
He must have noticed that I’d gone. He knew I’d run. He’d be looking for me, trying to find me and drag me back and…  
  
No. No, I wouldn’t panic. If he’d only just noticed, then I had a good lead on him. I had no ties to this place, no connection; he wouldn’t be able to deduce that I was here. He’d have to track me down the old fashioned way, and while I didn’t doubt that he would catch up with me in the end, that took time. With any luck, I’d be safely ensconced — well, ensconced, at any rate — in the PRT building by that point.  
  
Even so, even telling myself all that, I still breathed a little easier once he rang off.  
  
At least until the next time.  
  
The calls kept coming. Not constantly — there was enough of a gap between them that I’d just start to think maybe they’d given up, when my phone would start ringing again. Sometimes it was Dad, sometimes Lance. I started just hitting the ‘reject’ button as soon as I realised who it was. Yes, they’d now know I was deliberately avoiding their calls, rather than just being unable to answer them, but at this point the horse had well and truly bolted, and closing the barn door was nothing but an exercise in futility.  
  
I would’ve turned my phone off altogether if I hadn’t been terrified of missing an update from Gallant. Who, it transpired, was running late.  
  
I tried not to read anything into it. I also tried to resist the urge to keep texting for an ETA, or an update, or any fucking thing that let me know he was still coming, that he wasn’t leaving me to twist in the wind. I was only moderately successful at either of these.  
  
This was my only chance to escape. I couldn’t bear to think what would happen if it fell through. But the more the time stretched on, the more the tension seemed to ratchet up, until I was honestly shocked that the whole damn café didn’t shake in time with the thunderous pulsing of my heartbeat.  
  
Of course, my racing heart could also have had a little something to do with the fact that I’d probably just drunk way more coffee than was really good for me. Not that I didn’t drink coffee normally, but never usually so much at once. But it was there and it was hot and I was still so very, very cold.  
  
Dammit! Where was he?  
  
I mean, he was replying to my increasingly frantic messages, so that was good. (I hoped I wasn’t pissing him off with my constant requests for updates, but I couldn’t seem to make myself stop.) And, according to his last text, the van was almost here…  
  
Wait. Was that him?  
  
Just as the PRT van pulled up to the sidewalk, my phone buzzed with a text that said, simply: “We’re right outside.”  
  
It was all I could do not to leap out of my seat and run madly for the door. Instead, I got up calmly, left an average tip on the table, picked up my bag and generally tried to act as thought the timing of my departure was nothing but pure coincidence. It was cold out, so it hopefully didn’t look weird that I flipped up my hood and pulled my scarf up. And it was slightly sunny, so putting dark glasses on wasn’t so unusual. I hoped.  
  
I wasn’t sure whether I should head for the front or the back of the van, but luckily that decision was made for me when the back doors opened to reveal Gallant inside.  
  
Who would have thought that I’d ever be so relieved to see one of the Wards?  
  
Gallant smiled as I approached.  
  
“Hello again. Sorry I’m late.” He gestured to my bag. “Do you want me to take that?”  
  
“No thanks, I’ve got it.”  
  
I tried not to bristle too much at the offer, reminding myself that he probably just had an image to maintain. He wasn’t necessarily trying to imply I wasn’t strong enough to carry it. Nor was it necessarily just a ploy to scan or search through my things.  
  
Let’s face it, the latter hardly required a ploy.  
  
“Then please hop in, and we’ll be on our way.”  
  
I nodded and joined him in the van, stowing my bag under the seat and strapping myself in as he closed the doors. And then we were moving.  
  
I’d thought that I’d feel something once I was in the van. Apprehension, maybe, if not outright fear. Curiosity perhaps, about what would be waiting for me when we reached our destination. Instead, I just felt… kind of numb. And mildly exhausted, which surely was something of a miracle given all the coffee I’d drunk. It felt like I could actually have taken a nap if I’d wanted to.  
  
I really didn’t want to.  
  
I was aware of Gallant regarding me. Not that I could really see his eyes, but his head was turned my way and it certainly felt like I was being scrutinised. Idly, I wondered what he saw; what he made of me. Not, I supposed, that he could really see much of me given the way I was bundled up.  
  
“How are you doing?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Fine,” I replied automatically.  
  
What was I supposed to say? That I was actually feeling fairly shitty, thanks, and if it wasn’t for the numbness I’d probably be having some sort of epic meltdown right now which might have involved ripping this van apart around us? But there was no point in getting worked up about it. He was probably just being polite. Although, I supposed, he might have wanted to figure out how likely I was to flip the fuck out. After all, he was kind of stuck in here with me right now.  
  
I wondered if the driver was listening to us. I hadn’t even tried to get a look at them as I walked up; an oversight that really wasn’t like me. ‘Never ignore an enemy,’ Dad’s voice whispered in my mind. ‘Always make sure you know exactly who’s around you and what their capabilities are.’ And then: ‘I’ve trained you better than this, **girl**.’  
  
I suppressed a shudder.  
  
Belatedly, it occurred to me that I should probably try to be nicer to Gallant. Or, at least, try not to come across as hostile. He was doing me a favour here. And, depending on how things went, there was a chance we might end up as team mates. No sense getting off on the wrong foot, especially when I was pretty sure I’d dragged him away from spending time with his girlfriend.  
  
“Thanks for doing this,” I said, making myself look him directly in the visor, despite wanting to keep my eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “I’m sorry I disrupted your weekend.”  
  
“You’re very welcome,” he said easily, sounding like he actually meant it. (Idly, I wondered if he’d had acting lessons, or if that was all natural talent.) “And it really is no trouble. I did tell you to call, after all.”  
  
Somehow, I doubted his girlfriend felt quite so understanding about the whole thing, but I kept that thought to myself.  
  
He started to say something else, but just then my phone rang again, making me jump embarrassingly. It was Dad this time, rather than Lance, and I couldn’t help a spike of fear that went right through me — piercing straight through the numbness — at the thought of just how **angry** he must be right now. God, if he got his hands on me… I stabbed at the ‘reject call’ button almost convulsively, only just resisting the urge to rip the phone to pieces. I did, however, turn the damn thing off.  
  
Now I’d rendezvoused with Gallant, the only people likely to call me were Dad and Lance, and there were no words for how little I wanted to talk to either of them right now.  
  
I went to put the phone back in my pocket, then changed my mind and chucked it into my bag instead.  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered, flushing, embarrassed that Gallant had witnessed that little performance.  
  
“There’s no need to apologise.” I couldn’t quite figure out his tone. It wasn’t irritated, or mocking. Instead, it was oddly gentle. But not pitying. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply said nothing. A few minutes passed in silence.  
  
On the one hand, that was good: I wasn’t exactly feeling up to much in the way of conversation right now. On the other hand, it was bad: it gave me the opportunity to think. Dad’s phone call had damaged my calm something fierce, shredding the protective numbness that had been keeping the apprehension at bay. Now, all my fears and misgivings and second-guessing seemed to be busy making up for lost time.  
  
Agreeing to go to the PRT headquarters had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now… Was I making a terrible mistake? Was I just trading one shitty situation for another?  
  
(Was I trading one basement for another?)  
  
But then… But then. My reasons for agreeing to this were still sound. Dad couldn’t get to me there. And as for the rest of it… I needed information, didn’t I? How could I decide anything without knowing all the options, and what they meant?  
  
Assuming, of course, that it really would be my decision. Because once I’d put myself in their hands, what were the odds that they’d just let me walk away without signing up? It didn’t seem likely. Realistically, what could I even do if they just decided to keep me there? Sure, ordinary physical restraints couldn’t hold me any more, but I’d be a fool to assume that the PRT didn’t have access to something that could. Would my power even work on containment foam? I couldn’t **think** of any reason why it wouldn’t, but then again it wasn’t like I’d had the opportunity to test it.  
  
Shit. What was I even doing here? What had I been thinking?  
  
But even as I asked the question, I already knew the answer.  
  
I’d been thinking that I didn’t have any other choices.  
  
Suddenly, the van seemed too small, confining and suffocating. It was getting hard to breathe. My power started to surge, but I held it back with every ounce of willpower I could scrape together. I would **not** lose my shit. Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of a fucking hero. I would get it together and I would keep it together if it killed me.  
  
Dimly, I was aware that Gallant was saying something, I tried to make myself focus on his words, but I couldn’t figure them out.  
  
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked, hoping like hell my voice didn’t sound as distant and strange to him as it did to my own ears.  
  
“I asked if you wanted to stop and get out,” he asked quietly.  
  
“What?” My head snapped up — I didn’t even remember letting it drop — and I gave him a startled, searching look. “Why?”  
  
He sighed softly. “You’re obviously extremely uncomfortable right now. It really wasn’t my intention to put pressure on you and I apologise if that’s how it came across. If you’ve changed your mind about this, if you’d rather walk away and take some time to think things over, then that’s perfectly fine. It’s your choice.”  
  
Since when had I ever had a real choice about anything in my whole damn life?  
  
“You’d let me go? Just like that?”  
  
The words burst out before I’d even realised I was going to speak. As soon as they were out there, I could have kicked myself. I really hadn’t wanted to let him know just how trapped I was feeling right now. For his part, Gallant leaned forward in his seat, his whole posture somehow conveying an impression of sincerity.  
  
“You’re not a prisoner,” he said quietly. “Like I said to you last week: I know it might not seem like it right now, but you do have options. Joining the Wards is one of them, but it’s not the only one, and I have no intention of trying to push you into something you don’t want.”  
  
Maybe he didn’t, I found myself thinking — assuming, of course, that he was telling the truth — but that didn’t mean that the higher ups in the PRT would share that opinion. It didn’t even mean the driver would cooperate if Gallant actually asked them to pull over.  
  
And yet…  
  
And yet, strangely, I actually found myself feeling a little calmer. For a moment, I considered testing whether or not he and the driver would actually follow through on that offer to let me walk, but then I decided against it. I’d chosen this path, after all. I wanted to see where it would take me.  
  
(And if I still feared what might be waiting for me when we reached our destination? Well. I certainly wasn’t going to let a little thing like fear dictate my actions.)  
  
I made myself take a deep, calming breath before I spoke.  
  
“I don’t want to get out,” I said, thoroughly relieved when my voice came out level. “And I’m still prepared to at least talk about joining the Wards.”  
  
Even if I still had doubts that any decision on the matter would be made as freely as he kept trying to claim.  
  
Gallant tilted his head a little. “You’re sure?” he asked.  
  
No. Yes. I didn’t know.  
  
“Yes,” I said. I thought about attempting a smile, but then I realised he wouldn’t be able to see it. “I want to know what my options are.”  
  
He looked at me for a beat longer, and I wondered if he was going to ask if I was sure again, but then he nodded.  
  
“Just let me know if you change your mind, okay?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Tired of dwelling on my fears, I cast about for something to distract myself and found myself covertly studying Gallant’s armour. I kind of wanted to reach out and send my power through it. Well, not so much ‘kind of’ and more ‘really’. Not destroying it — **that** urge, thankfully, seemed to have subsided for the moment. Just… studying it. Seeing how it was put together. I supposed I could have asked him if I could take a look, but I shied away from that. I couldn’t imagine he’d agree, and why risk putting him on edge?  
  
“Did you make that armour?” I found myself asking anyway. I didn’t **think** he was a tinker, but you never knew.  
  
“No,” he said, chuckling a little. I almost glared at him from behind my dark glasses, but it didn’t sound like he was laughing at me. “Kid Win made it.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Now I wanted to analyse it even more. I nearly asked what it was made from, but I somehow managed to prevent myself from interrogating him. Asking questions would probably be better than using my power, but I still wasn’t sure it would be a wise move.  
  
Well, that was all the conversation I had in me. Luckily, Gallant seemed to be a little better at the whole talking to other human beings like a regular person thing and, after another few minutes of silence, he turned to me with a smile.  
  
“So, I was wondering,” he began.  
  
“Yes?” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.  
  
“What’s the food like at the Half Moon Café? It’s got some good reviews, but you can’t always tell from those.”  
  
I stared at him blankly for a moment before realising that he was talking about the place where I’d waited for him. But why was he asking about the food? Was he just making small talk? Or was he…? Oh. That was smart. Establishing whether it was somewhere I went regularly might help him to narrow down where I lived; give them a way to track me down if I did decide to walk.  
  
The illusion of freedom.  
  
Or maybe I was just being paranoid. Honestly, at this point I really couldn’t tell any more.  
  
(‘It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.’)  
  
“It’s pretty good,” I told Gallant. “But their desserts are excellent. Their key lime pie is the best I’ve ever tasted.”  
  
Also the most expensive, but I kept that to myself. It was probably pretty obvious I wasn’t exactly rolling in money, but that didn’t mean I had to give him any more clues.  
  
(‘Give the enemy as little information as you can. Even the most seemingly innocuous of details can potentially be used against you.’)  
  
“I do love a good key lime pie,” he said. “I’ll have to check it out. Thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” I said automatically, helplessly, bemusedly.  
  
Shit. This was fucking **bizarre**. I’d run away from home after nearly tearing it apart. I was in a PRT van, heading to the PRT headquarters, accompanied by a Ward. And we were having a conversation about dessert?  
  
Weird.  
  
Still, on the plus side, the tangent had managed to distract me from my panic, at least briefly. Actually, thinking of the café reminded me of something.  
  
“Your friend was right, by the way,” I told him.  
  
“Excuse me?” He sounded puzzled. I suppressed a grin. Turnabout seemed fair play after he’d flummoxed me with the tangent about the café. Anyway, it wasn’t entirely apropos of nothing.  
  
“About coffee helping with migraines,” I explained. “At least, it seems to work for me.” It didn’t do all that much, of course, but I’d take any help I could get. Migraines were the devil’s own work, that was for damn sure.  
  
“Oh. Good.” He smiled, sounding genuinely pleased. “I’m glad it wasn’t some weirdness on my friend’s part.”  
  
I couldn’t help snorting at that. “Well, they might still be weird,” I said dryly. “But not for that. Anyway, it makes sense from a pharmacological perspective.”  
  
I’d done a little research when I was waiting for Dad to finish taking care of his ‘loose ends’ before driving us up to the cabin. It had whiled away a good few minutes.  
  
“Oh? How so?” He sounded interested.  
  
“Caffeine is a vasoconstrictor,” I explained. “Well, technically it competitively inhibits adenosine receptors, which…” Why was he looking at me like that? With that quizzical little head tilt and the ever so slightly pursed lips. “Never mind,” I muttered, flushing a little beneath the scarf.  
  
“You don’t need to stop,” he said, and now he sounded **amused** for fuck’s sake.  
  
I bet I knew what it was. It would hardly be the first time someone had taken me for some half-witted thug. I mean, okay, maybe I was kind of a thug. But I liked to think I was a fucking well-educated one. I might not have been the smartest of people, but I worked my ass off at school and was consistently at the top of my classes. And I liked to think I’d work just as hard even without Dad’s particular brand of motivation. I loved learning new things. Just because I was a fairly physical person, and I didn’t always speak all that much and, yeah, maybe I did have a tendency towards violence, that didn’t mean people should just assume I was stupid!  
  
It was only when my metal started to stir beneath my sleeves that I realised quite how worked up I’d been getting.  
  
Shit.  
  
What was wrong with me? I wasn’t usually quite this touchy. I mean, Gallant had barely even said anything. I certainly didn’t have any proof that he was judging me. Anyway, even if he was, it wasn’t like I could afford to antagonise him at this point.  
  
And… I should probably reply to him before the silence became even more awkward.  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t want to bore you,” I said belatedly, aiming for something at least in the region of good humour. “After all, it’s bad enough that I’ve dragged you out on a Sunday. It seems like adding insult to injury to subject you to a lecture at the same time.”  
  
Apparently I could manage ‘self-deprecating’. That seemed to be close enough, or at least Gallant was kind enough to take it at face value.  
  
“You weren’t boring me,” he assured me, smiling. “And, like I said before, you really don’t have to feel bad about calling me. I wouldn’t have made the offer if I didn’t mean it.”  
  
“I’m not sure your girlfriend appreciated the disturbance,” I muttered, and then froze, flushing. Shit! I really hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  
  
“Ah. You heard some of that, then.”  
  
He sounded distinctly less than comfortable which, weirdly, actually kind of made me feel more so. It wasn’t that I wanted him to feel bad, it was just… It sounded real. It was the sort of thing I could kind of relate to. Or, at least, it would be if I’d ever actually dated anybody.  
  
“Enough to know she wasn’t happy,” I said. He looked even more uncomfortable. Damn. Now I kind of wanted to make him feel better. “I don’t blame her,” I assured him. “I just hope she wasn’t too upset with you.”  
  
“She’ll get over it,” he muttered, seeming to slump a little in his seat. Briefly, anyway. The next moment he rallied, giving me a slightly lopsided smile. “Anyway, that is really not something you need to worry about. In fact, please don’t. This line of conversation is not doing great things for my aura of professionalism. It’s bad enough that I was late arriving. And then there was the aforementioned bathroom accosting incident. I dread to imagine the impression you must have of me.”  
  
That actually startled a laugh out of me. It was the delivery that did it: just the right note of wry self-deprecation. It quite put my own attempt to shame.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” I drawled. “My impression of you is pretty damn favourable right now. I mean: you actually showed up.” And, just like that, it wasn’t funny anymore; not even a little. Without meaning to, I found myself adding: “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t.”  
  
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. He moved a little, and I didn’t know whether he was going to reach for me, or was just shifting in place, but I tensed anyway and he went still. “It’s okay,” he said again. He started to say something else, but then stopped, tilting his head like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear. “We’re here,” he said. Comms gear in his helmet, I assumed. “We’re just pulling into the parking garage now.” His lips quirked in a small smile. “I assumed you didn’t want to go in through the main entrance.”  
  
I pulled myself together, ignoring the way my heart rate had picked up a little  
  
“That would be an accurate assumption,” I said lightly. “Bonus professionalism points for you.”  
  
“I’m glad you approve.” Once again, I genuinely couldn’t tell whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. I assumed it was the latter. The vehicle came to a halt. “Well, this is our stop,” he said. But instead of getting up right away, he reached to one side and snagged something from the seat next to him. “I thought you might like this,” he said, holding it out to me. There was definitely something like a smirk on what I could see of his face as he added: “It’s got to be an improvement over the sunglasses and scarf combination.”  
  
It was a mask, I realised, belatedly. Just a simple cloth thing, a three-quarter face-covering with eye holes and adjustable straps to hold it in place. It… would be better than my current attempt at concealing my identity, I mused. And yet I hesitated. It was a generic mask, like the kind you could just buy in a shop, or at least online. It wasn’t like it said PRT or Wards on it. It didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t any kind of agreement, or commitment. It wasn’t a big deal.  
  
And yet…  
  
Putting on a mask — even a cheap, generic one — kind of **felt** like a big deal in a way that donning a scarf and some dark glasses really didn’t.  
  
So I hesitated. Briefly.  
  
And then I thought: ‘fuck it’ and accepted the mask.  
  
It was way more practical, after all. And, for me, practicality would always trump sentiment.  
  
(Except when it didn’t.)  
  
“Thank you,” I said. “Um, is there somewhere I can change?”  
  
I might have kind of liked the guy, but that didn’t mean I trusted him worth a damn. Certainly not enough to show him my face, not at this stage.  
  
“I’ll let you have the van,” he said easily, unclipping his seatbelt and getting to his feet. He had to stoop a little so as not to bash his head on the roof of the vehicle. “The driver’s already departed, so you’ll have privacy.”  
  
I nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” I couldn’t help wondering if there were cameras, but there seemed little point in asking. Besides, it was a safe bet that there were cameras in the building itself, so this was probably the better option.  
  
“See you outside,” Gallant told me, and left the van, closing the door behind him.  
  
If it wasn’t for the fact that I knew I could get out if I needed to, I might have felt trapped. I reached out to send my power through the van anyway, more for reassurance than anything else. I couldn’t find anything that was obviously a camera, but I wouldn’t necessarily recognise one if I sensed it. Not without first learning what they felt like. I guessed I’d just have to be careful, and take what precautions I could. That pretty much just involved turning to face the side of the van and pulling my hood as far forward as it would go. It made the process of putting the mask on more than a little awkward, but I managed.  
  
(And if I maybe took a moment or two longer than I really needed to make sure it sat just right on my face, well, better safe than sorry. It most certainly didn’t have a thing to do with being nervous about going out there.)  
  
(Not a goddamn thing.)  
  
Right.  
  
Time to see what the inside of the PRT building looked like.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I had to admit that my first impression was somewhat underwhelming. But then, I supposed one parking garage was much like another, even for a government-sponsored paramilitary organisation. As was the elevator we took to the ground floor. I had to admit to feeling a certain amount of apprehension as we approached a security station, made worse by the fact that there was what looked like a metal detector.  
  
“It’s alright,” Gallant told me quietly. “Please wait here a moment.”  
  
I came to a halt while he stepped forward to speak with the security guards, wondering uneasily what was going on. Was I going to have to give up my metal? I really, really didn’t want to do that. Could we maybe just sit in the parking garage and talk? I mean, I was probably safe enough from Dad there, even if he did somehow figure out where I was. But before I could work myself up into a proper tizzy, Gallant returned, holding something out to me.  
  
“Your visitor’s pass,” he explained. I clipped it onto my jacket, feeling a little confused. “Alright, now follow me.”  
  
Much to my surprise, he actually led me past the metal detector. I fancied the guards watched me suspiciously, but that could just have been my anxiety talking. I couldn’t help glancing back at them as we made our way to a set of elevators.  
  
“They don’t even need a name?” I asked, even though what I really wanted to ask him was: they’re not going to search me? They’re not going to take my metal?  
  
“You’re my guest,” he said, simply, and then grinned. “Which, technically, means that I’m responsible for your behaviour while you’re here. So please don’t do anything to get me in trouble with the Director.”  
  
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I remarked dryly, filing the information away.  
  
He pressed the button to call the elevator.  
  
“I was thinking that we could go to the cafeteria,” he said. “We could use one of the meeting rooms if you want, but the cafeteria’s definitely a more pleasant environment. There are booths, and it’s not likely to be busy at this time on a Sunday, so we should have plenty of privacy. Plus, snacks and hot drinks.”  
  
“Still working on that aura of professionalism, I see,” I  murmured, grinning a little. “But sure, the cafeteria’s fine.”  
  
It certainly appealed to me more than the thought of being in a poky little meeting room. (And it didn’t help that I found myself wondering if ‘meeting room’ was a euphemism for ‘interrogation room’.)  
  
As the elevator carried us to the floor with the cafeteria, I finally gave into the temptation that had been plaguing me since I’d stepped out of the van. I lightly brushed my fingers against the elevator wall, just as lightly  letting my power flow through the building. Not wanting to risk a migraine, I damped down the information flow as much as I could. Even so, it was almost overwhelming. There was a brief pulse of pain behind my eyes as I disengaged, but it didn’t seem to be flaring up into a full-blown migraine, so I counted that a success.  
  
And knowing exactly where I was in the building did wonders for my peace of mind. It was much harder to effect an escape if you didn’t know where the exits were.  
  
Not that I was planning on making a break for it, but better safe than sorry.  
  
“Would you like anything to eat or drink?” Gallant asked. “A coffee, maybe?”  
  
“I wouldn’t mind a hot drink,” I mused. “But I think I’ve about reached my caffeine limit for the moment.” Which reminded me: I was really going to have to find a bathroom sometime soon.  
  
“Then may I recommend the hot chocolate? It’s actually pretty good.”  
  
“Sure, why not?”  
  
“I’ll get it, then. Why don’t you go and find us a booth?”  
  
“You don’t need to do that,” I protested. I was already feeling uncomfortably like I owed him for coming when I called. I didn’t need to feel even more like I was in his debt.  
  
“It’s really no trouble. And I believe it’s somewhat traditional for the host to provide refreshment.”  
  
“Well, okay,” I said grudgingly. It was only a hot chocolate, after all. Compared to what he’d already done, that was nothing. “Thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” He smiled. He seemed to do that a lot, I noted. “Would you like whipped cream on it?”  
  
I almost pulled a face at the thought. “No thanks, I’m good. I’ll go find us a booth.”  
  
A short while later, we were seated opposite each other. I had my hot chocolate. Gallant had what looked like a cup of tea, along with a slice of pie. I couldn’t help giving him an amused look.  
  
“I’ve been craving key lime pie since our conversation in the van,” he told me, sounding rueful and just a touch defensive. “Don’t judge me.”  
  
“No judgement here,” I assured him, grinning.   
  
Goddammit! It was things like this that made it really fucking hard to see him as some faceless, implacable agent of the system. It made him seem human; like someone I could maybe relate to. He’d already made me smile and laugh more than I had in a long time, even though earlier today it had felt like I’d never do either of those things again.  
  
Even telling myself that it was all a ploy, that it was calculated to put me at ease and get me to let my guard down… Even telling myself all of that, over and over, didn’t stop it from working.  
  
I wrapped my hands around my mug, enjoying the warmth of it on my skin. Gallant glanced down, and I felt a small flare of self-consciousness, wondering what he thought of the split and scabbed knuckles, the visible bruises and scrapes, the scars and callouses. There was no disguising the fact that they were fighter’s hands, and normally that didn’t bother me in the slightest, but now…  
  
I guessed it was probably too late to worry about making a good impression.  
  
“So,” he said quietly, and his tone was serious. “If you’re thinking about joining the Wards, you must have some questions for me.”  
  
“Yeah,” I agreed, ignoring the nervous flutter in my stomach to add: “And I guess you probably have questions for me as well.”  
  
The big one, I assumed, being about why I couldn’t go back home.  
  
“You said you needed help.” I had said that, hadn’t I? When I was struggling to find words after, in defiance of all my expectations, he’d actually answered his phone. “I’m more than willing to do what I can, but I’m afraid I’m going to need more information to figure out exactly what that is.”  
  
Oh. Right. That made sense, I supposed. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know I was going to have to tell him **something** in addition to the few details I’d blurted out over the phone, but…  
  
This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation. Not least because I was going to have to leave so much out.  
  
“Okay,” I said softly, almost as much to myself as to him.  
  
To buy myself a few moments to try to get my thoughts into some sort of order, I took a sip of my hot chocolate, which was a little sweeter than I’d prefer, but otherwise not half bad. I also let my power trail reassuringly through the mug and, even more reassuringly, through my metal, reminding myself that I wasn’t helpless. No matter how it felt.  
  
I kept hold of the mug (resolutely not thinking that hot liquid to the face would make for an excellent distraction if I needed one) and made myself meet the blank gaze of his visor.  
  
Although, actually, now we were in a well-lit cafeteria rather than a shadowed van — and I wasn’t wearing sunglasses — it didn’t seem quite so blank and featureless. I could actually just about make out the outline of his eyes through the… plastic? Plexiglass? Weird tinker-tech material? Whatever it was the visor was made out of. (I really wanted to examine it.) Another thing that made him seem more like a person than a faceless automaton.  
  
Dammit.  
  
Anyway, I was just procrastinating now.  
  
Okay. For real, this time.  
  
“I did something stupid,” I told him.  
  
“Oh?” he asked cautiously.  
  
I took a deep breath, feeling like I was poised at the edge of a precipice.  
  
“I disobeyed my father.”  
  
The fear rose up in me, but I forced it down as best as I could.  
  
I was technically disobeying Dad again right now, talking to an outsider about what went on behind closed doors. That was another one of his fucking rules. It was why he insisted that Lance and I didn’t leave visible marks when we sparred, or fought. The one thing we absolutely could not do was draw attention.  
  
“And if I go home, he’s going to punish me for it.”  
  
Fuck, what was one more broken rule at this point? There was so much he was going to punish me for if he ever got his hands on me. Besides, I was pretty sure that he’d view even thinking about joining the Wards as much more of a transgression than just telling someone about the way he enforced discipline. Not to mention the fact that I’d run. Again.  
  
I tried really hard not to think about what happened the last time I’d tried that.  
  
I failed.  
  
“He’s going to hurt me.”  
  
The words seemed to come from a great distance, like someone else was saying them. Liquid spattered onto my hand, and I was startled to see that the hot chocolate was slopping back and forth in the mug. For a brief, confused moment, I thought it might have been something to do with my power, but then I realised that my hands were shaking. Weird. Maybe I was colder than I thought. Anyway, I made them stop.  
  
“I can’t go back home. I can’t…” And now my voice was cracking? What the fuck was wrong with me? My chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in here, and I almost thought my heart was going to burst right through my ribs, it was pounding so hard. “I can’t go through that again,” I found myself saying, my mouth apparently deciding to shape the words without any input from me.  
  
Christ. Gallant was going to think I was some sort of… of **victim**. He’d think I was pathetic. I **sounded** pathetic. But what could I say? I could hardly tell the truth, and I needed some sort of explanation for why I’d run; for why I absolutely could not go back. And this… Well, with the various injuries from this week’s training, not to mention the punishments and the final exam, I guessed I’d be able to sell that I was so pathetic that I’d run away from home because my father hit me.  
  
It might have been a lie, but it was a useful one.  
  
And the way I couldn’t seem to control my own reactions right now could only help the illusion.  
  
What the fuck was wrong with me?  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I supposed I’d just have to cope with being thought weak. Depending on how this went, it might be something I’d just have to get used to, at least for a while.  
  
Didn’t mean I had to like it, though.  
  
I tried to fight down the disgust and self-loathing; the sudden burst of terror at the thought that they might make me go back. (I couldn’t go back. I **couldn’t**.) I tried to pull myself together. I liked to think I more or less managed it.  
  
“So I ran. But now I don’t know what to do.” At least my voice didn’t crack again, although I sounded a little more lost than I was really happy with. I gave a lopsided shrug. “That’s it.”  
  
It felt like it took forever for Gallant to respond. An eternity with my heart in my mouth, waiting to find out if what I’d told him was enough. (If it was too much.) When he finally spoke, however, his words took me completely by surprise.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“What?” I blinked stupidly at him. “Why?”  
  
Of course, hard on the heels of surprise came pure unadulterated panic. Was he apologising because he couldn’t help me? Because he had to turn me away? Or, horror of horrors, because he had to take me back home to my father?  
  
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he explained, and the panic subsided a little.  
  
“Oh,” I said, feeling like I should probably say something, but having no earthly clue what would be appropriate. “Thanks?”  
  
I hadn’t quite been intending to make that a question.  
  
Pity might be a bitter pill to swallow, but I’d take that over being sent back. I’d take it in a heartbeat. I’d long decided that my pride was a price I was more than willing to pay for my survival, and while I didn’t think Dad would actually kill me, becoming what he wanted me to be would still be a death of sorts.  
  
Gallant studied me, and I wondered what he was looking for.  
  
“Did your father do that?” he asked, gesturing at my face. It took me a moment to figure out what he meant, and then I realised that some of the bruising must be visible beneath the mask.  
  
“Yes,” I said softly. “Although,” I amended. “Some of it might have been my brother.”  
  
He seemed to twitch a little at that.  
  
“Your brother hurts you as well?” he asked carefully, and I had to suppress a flare of anger at the implication.  
  
God-fucking-dammit! I wasn’t some fucking battered child! But I couldn’t really **say** that, not without raising questions I didn’t want to answer. This particular misapprehension, however, was something I could at least try to correct.  
  
“We fought,” I said shortly. “It wasn’t serious.”  
  
“I see.” He didn’t sound like he saw at all. In fact, he sounded distinctly dubious. Whatever. It wasn’t important for him to get every single little nuance. Just as long as he could help me. “Well, regardless of whether or not you decide to join the Wards, I don’t think there’ll be a problem with getting you somewhere safe to stay. I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what’s involved in sorting that out, but the PRT does have lawyers on call and this seems like the kind of thing they’d be able to handle. Even if it’s not something they can deal with personally, they should be able to pass us onto someone who can.”  
  
‘Us.’ Not me. Did that mean he wasn’t just talking about handing me over to become someone else’s problem?  
  
If not, why not?  
  
But contacting a lawyer sounded like an awfully definite step. What if they wanted me to decide on the spot about joining the Wards?  
  
What if they wouldn’t help me unless I joined?  
  
Sure, Gallant seemed to be implying that they’d help in either event, but how could I trust that he meant it? Or even that he knew what he was talking about?  
  
“Can we hold off on contacting the lawyer for the moment?” I asked, sounding way more hesitant than I was really happy with. “I just… I think I’d like a little more information before bringing someone else in.”  
  
“Of course. I can understand that.” Was he agreeing too easily? Was he just an easygoing kind of guy? “There is one thing I should probably mention before you start asking questions, though.” Uh oh. Was the other shoe finally going to drop? I thought this seemed too good to be true. I thought **he** seemed too good to be true. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this,” he said carefully. “But joining the Wards generally requires parental permission.”  
  
Just like that, it felt like the floor dropped out from beneath my feet.  
  
“But… But there’s no way that’s going to happen,” I blurted out. “Even if I could… could ask Dad, which I can’t, he’d never agree. There’s no way in hell. He’s not going to let me go, not willingly. That’s why I had to run in the first place. I had to climb out of a fucking **window** , for Christ’s sake!”  
  
I could feel myself getting more and more agitated, more and more upset, but I couldn’t seem to dial it back. I could barely even find the will to dial it back. Wasn’t this the kind of detail it might have been good to know sooner? Like, when we talked on the phone? I’d told him I couldn’t go home. I’d fucking **told** him! What about that made it sound like I was in any kind of position to ask for parental permission about any goddamn thing?  
  
Shit. What was I even doing here? This wasn’t going to work. I really was well and truly fucked. I-  
  
“I wasn’t finished,” he said quickly, and I froze, staring helplessly at him. He sighed. “I’m sorry, Astrid. I really should have phrased that better. I was going to say: there are ways around that requirement, in exceptional circumstances, and I believe you’d more than qualify.” Shaking his head, he gave me a rueful little smile. “I was trying to reassure you, in case you did know about the parental permission thing. I really didn’t mean to cause you any distress.”  
  
“It’s okay,” I said, after a moment. I thought I only sounded a little bit grudging, but I didn’t think I was entirely unjustified. He’d really fucking **scared** me. Not that I was planning on telling him that.  
  
He waited a beat, as if he was expecting me to say something else. I took a sip of my cooling hot chocolate.  
  
“So… You climbed out of a window?” he said, and he didn’t sound like he disbelieved me, not exactly. Just like he didn’t quite know what to think about what I’d said.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“I couldn’t use the front door,” I said simply. “I wasn’t supposed to leave the house, and he would have seen or heard me. It wasn’t much of a drop, anyway. My bedroom’s only on the second floor.”  
  
Former bedroom, I supposed, now. Oh God. I really had done it, hadn’t I? I’d left my home; I’d left my **family** , my world. And who the fuck knew what was going to happen to me now?  
  
Gallant’s mouth opened as if he was going to say something, but he apparently changed his mind, taking a sip of his own drink and a bite of his largely neglected pie. Apparently he hadn’t been craving dessert as much as he’d thought. Or claimed. Maybe it had just been a ploy to put me a little more at ease. Eating and drinking together was supposed to be a bonding experience, after all.  
  
“Right,” he said. “What do you want to know about the Wards?”  
  
I considered for a moment.  
  
“What’s involved in being a member? What’s expected of you? What are your duties and responsibilities?”  
  
I mean, I knew the obvious things: the Wards were basically the junior Protectorate. Both groups called themselves heroes which, as far as I could tell, meant that they fought the capes designated as villains. According to Dad, the Protectorate et al were just another gang, albeit one with government backing. He really didn’t have a very high opinion of them at all. There were maybe a couple of individual Protectorate members who, he allowed, weren’t entirely useless in a fight, but in general…  
  
I remembered some of his tirades about how: ‘Oh, they sure as shit make big claims about following the will of the people, but in reality their strings are being pulled by the money men and liberal media. It’s just one big fucking” — insert various slurs meaning jewish — “conspiracy. Distract the public with bread and circuses while more and more of **our** rights are taken away.’ ‘Our,’ meaning whites, of course. ‘And don’t even get me started on their fucking blatant’ — various insulting terms for gay — ‘agenda. It makes me fucking sick the way they have’ — more slurs — ‘like Legend teaching kids that it’s okay to be…’  
  
When he got properly riled up, he could go on for quite some time. I mostly just stayed quiet and tried not to engage. I certainly never brought the subject up if I could possibly help it.  
  
“Well,” Gallant began. “The aim of Wards programme is to give parahumans who are minors the chance to figure out their powers in a relatively safe environment.”  
  
I might have been wearing a mask, but I was pretty sure my skepticism radiated through it anyway. Certainly, he winced a little as he continued.  
  
“I admit it doesn’t always work out that way, at least here in Brockton Bay, but that is the intention.”  
  
I refrained from making a sarcastic comment about the road to hell.   
  
“As for duties,” he continued. “Patrolling and monitoring are the obvious ones.”  
  
Patrolling. By which he meant walking the richer areas of the city — the heroes’ turf — keeping it clear of undesirables. Except… I knew they didn’t always stick to their own territory. Didn’t I hear that some of them went up against a couple of Empire capes not that long ago? I was sure I remembered Dad sneering about the Empire stooping to having ‘a fucking slap-fight with children,’ or something along those lines.  
  
“Aside from that, there are occasional PR engagements — speaking at schools and the like.”  
  
‘Occasional,’ huh?  
  
Honestly, I thought I’d rather fight Hookwolf than do any kind of public speaking.  
  
“There’s training, of course — fighting, working on powers, first aid, that kind of thing. And we’re expected to keep up with schoolwork. That’s pretty much it.”  
  
“I see.” Well, it sounded straightforward enough when he put it like that. But how much of it could I trust? More to the point, what wasn’t he telling me? But I didn’t really want to make my suspicions so blatant, so I moved on. “So, what’s the chain of command?”  
  
“The…” He frowned a little. “Who’s in charge, you mean?”  
  
Close enough, I guessed.  
  
“Sure,” I said, shrugging.  
  
“Well, we have a team leader. Currently that’s Aegis, but it tends to be whichever of us is the oldest, until they age out and go on to the Protectorate, or whatever they decide to do afterwards. The leader is responsible for setting patrol assignments, and overseeing the day to day running of the team. Beyond that, the Brockton Bay Wards are under the authority of the local PRT.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“The PRT? Not the Protectorate?”  
  
“It’s… complicated,” he said ruefully. “But yes. Although we’re expected to follow directives from Protectorate members when out in the field.”  
  
“So…” I tried to fit this together in a way I could understand. “The PRT sets the overall strategy for the Wards and the Protectorate has tactical command?”  
  
Now it was Gallant’s turn to frown. “I… guess?” he said, sounding a little unsure. “Something like that. But, like I said, it’s complicated.”  
  
‘Complicated,’ huh?  
  
I preferred: ‘potential clusterfuck of epic proportions.’  
  
What happened when there were contradictory orders? Because with two organisations in the mix, you couldn’t tell me that never happened.  
  
Christ.  
  
I needed to talk about something else, or I’d just start swearing.  
  
There was something I wanted to ask, but I wasn’t sure if I should. (I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.) I hesitated, dithering, but decided to go ahead. I wasn’t really expecting an answer, but the kind of non-response I got might still tell me something useful.  
  
“Okay,” I said slowly, trying to figure out how to phrase my question. “And how is discipline maintained?”  
  
He went still for a moment, and then leaned back a little in his seat, looking at me.  
  
“What do you mean?” he asked, his tone neutral.  
  
I frowned. Wasn’t it obvious?  
  
“Well, I assume that there are rules you’re expected to adhere to. So, what happens if someone breaks them?” My throat felt dry, my voice cracking a little as I clarified: “How are infractions punished?”  
  
(I tried to tell myself I wasn’t afraid of what the answer might be.)  
  
“Oh,” he said softly, the sound barely more than an exhalation of breath. “It’s not…” He shook his head, took a deep breath and tried again. “Well, depending on the nature of the, ah, offence, it could be a verbal reprimand, or perhaps being benched from patrols for a short while. Possibly some kind of menial task like cleaning could be assigned, I guess, but I’ve never actually seen that happen.” He paused for a moment — hesitating, or just considering his words? — and then continued. “They don’t use corporal punishment. At all.”  
  
Well, of course he’d **say** that. It hardly seemed likely, though. They were a bunch of teenagers with superpowers, and he seriously expected me to believe the only measures used to keep them in line were words and groundings?  
  
(There was always a basement. Always.)  
  
Whatever. It didn’t matter. Like I’d said: I was more interested in what he decided to tell me than whether or not it was true.  
  
Time to move on to something I actually was concerned about.  
  
The most important question of all, really.  
  
“What happens if someone comes after one of your members?” I asked, my stomach twisting a little at the thought of Dad coming to drag me back home. “If… I don’t know, someone has a grudge against one of you. Are you expected to just deal with it, or…?”  
  
I gestured vaguely, unable to properly articulate what I was trying to ask.  
  
(Would they protect me from Dad?)  
  
( **Could** they protect me from Dad?)  
  
“We look after our own,” he said, simply and — I thought — sincerely. “We’re a team, and that means if someone picks a fight with one of us, then they have to deal with all of us.”  
  
That was…  
  
It was good enough.  
  
I mean, there were still little details like where I was going to stay, and what I was going to live on, but I wasn’t sure those were really matters for the Wards or the PRT. Maybe that was something I should bring up with the lawyer when I spoke with them.  
  
Because, let’s face it, I’d already made my decision.  
  
“Okay,” I said, quietly but decisively.  
  
“Okay?” Gallant queried, sitting up straighter in his chair.  
  
“I’d like to join the Wards,” I said, ignoring the way that apprehension trailed icy fingers down my spine, making me want to shiver. I attempted a smile. “Aura of professionalism or not, I guess you’re pretty convincing.”  
  
He studied me for a long moment.  
  
“Are you sure? You’re not just saying that because you don’t think you have any other choice? Because I’ll do what I can to help you regardless of whether or not you sign up.”  
  
I barked out a laugh. It was maybe just a little jagged around the edges.  
  
“I’m not sure about anything right now,” I told him. “But I think… I think I’d like to join.” After all, whatever else you could say about the Wards, at least they weren’t fucking nazis. That had to be a step up from my Dad’s squad. “I do have a condition, though.”  
  
“What condition?” he asked.  
  
I sat up as straight as I could, looking him dead in the eyes.  
  
“I’m prepared to fight,” I told him, my tone absolutely level. “But I won’t kill. I hope that isn’t a problem.”  
  
Gallant’s mouth dropped open. He gaped at me for a moment or two, and then shook himself.  
  
“That’s… Why would that be a problem?” he blurted out, sounding seriously rattled. “Why would you think that’s something we’d ask of you? We don’t… I know we tend to see more action than Wards are really supposed to, but we’re not expected to… I don’t know what you’ve been told, but even the Brockton Bay Wards don’t get involved in lethal engagements.”  
  
He sounded positively scandalised.  
  
I frowned, trying to figure out if his reaction was genuine. It certainly seemed sincere, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  
  
“You fight capes,” I pointed out. “Some of them aren’t exactly known for pulling their punches. I guess I just assumed…”  
  
That they’d do what they had to, if it came down to it. Just like Dad had always drilled into me. The fact that I chose otherwise was neither here nor there.  
  
“That’s not how it works,” he said, his manner once again controlled. “If a villain actually tried to kill a Ward, the Protectorate would rain hell down upon them. If we’re ever in a situation where lethal force is called for, then things have already gone so far south they’ve ended up in Antarctica. I have **never** heard of a Ward being involved in a kill or be killed situation outside of an S-class event. Not once. I mean, I’m not going to say it could never ever happen, because situations can go sideways and, like you said, some of the villains out there aren’t exactly known for pulling their punches. But…” He took a deep breath, let it out in an audible sigh. “Trust me, Astrid. No one’s going to ask you to kill.”  
  
Did I believe him? I considered for a moment. I believed that he believed it. I mean, he could have faked his shock, no question, but I didn’t think he had. Maybe it was naive of me, but, well, I kind of wanted to believe him.  
  
I smiled.  
  
“Alright, then,” I said. “I think it’s time to call that lawyer.”


	12. Interlude 1: Lance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for racist and homophobic slurs. The inside of Lance's head is really not a pleasant place to be.

The bell rang, signalling the end of the school day.  
  
Fucking **finally**!  
  
Lance shoved his books into his backpack and got to his feet, narrowly resisting the urge to kick over his desk as he did so. This had been a complete fucking waste of time. Coming to school, pretending like everything was **normal**. For all the attention he’d managed to pay in class, he might as well have just stayed at home. Or done something useful with the day. Like hitting the streets, searching for…  
  
Someone pushed past him as he stepped out into the hallway, and he whirled on them with a snarl.  
  
“Watch it, you fucking…” He flicked his gaze over the fucking clumsy piece of **shit** that needed to look where they were going, clenching his hands into fists. “Slant-eyed prick.”  
  
“Watch **yourself** , asshole!” the mongrel shot back, and someone really needed to teach this filth the proper respect for his betters. Well, Lance was more than happy to oblige. He shrugged off his bag and shifted his weight in preparation for beating the everliving shit out of the motherfucker, not even caring that he was wearing ABB colours; that he had friends who were even now starting to pay attention. He didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was feeling the impact of his fists on some other fucker’s flesh, of hitting and hitting until the howling rage inside him died down enough that he could think straight and-  
  
“Lance!” The sound of his name jolted him back to awareness, and he looked up to see his friend Mike making his way down the corridor towards him. As their eyes met, Mike gave a warning shake of his head. “Not here, man. It’s not worth it.”  
  
There was a part of him — most of him, honestly — that wanted to throw caution to the winds and just start punching anyway, but he made himself dial it back, contenting with levelling a murderous glare at the yellow bastard.  
  
“Guess today’s your lucky day, motherfucker,” he growled. “Best run along before I change my mind.”  
  
The slant-eye started to say something, but then his friends were there, whispering in his ear, and Mike had made his way to Lance, Darren and Sam not far behind him. There was a moment when the situation could have gone either way, but then everyone seemed to reach a mutual agreement to stand the fuck down. There were a few muttered insults, and a whole lot of glaring, but the two groups ultimately went their separate ways; ABB filth in one direction and E88, plus Lance, in the other.  
  
Lance knew that was a good thing, really, but he couldn’t help being disappointed at being denied the cathartic release of violence. He’d just have to find someone else to beat bloody. Or maybe he’d just pick a fight with Astrid when he got home. Except…  
  
Fuck!  
  
Except she wasn’t there. Because she’d run the fuck away. Because he’d been right after all: she was too fucking **weak** to do what had to be done. So, like a coward, she’d run instead.  
  
He ignored the voice that whispered in the back of his mind, saying that maybe there’d actually been something a little brave about the act of running when you considered what she was risking by doing so. When you considered what the old man had done to her the last time she pulled that stunt. When you considered what he was going to do when he got his hands on her this time.  
  
Because she’d be back, he knew. It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to go. So the old man would find her and drag her back home where she belonged. And then she’d get what she deserved.  
  
Stupid fucking **bitch**.  
  
“Hey, calm down.” Mike went to put a hand on his shoulder, but paused at the look Lance shot his way, raising both hands in a mockery of surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger, okay?”  
  
“Sorry, man,” Lance muttered after a moment or two, having to make an effort to speak the words instead of snarling them. “Fucker just pissed me off, is all. Thanks for pulling me back.”  
  
“No problem.” Mike relaxed a little, like he’d thought Lance was actually going to smack him one. Which… Okay. Maybe he had a point. Lance had been feeling pretty on edge. Still was, if he was honest. But lashing out at Mike wouldn’t have solved anything. Wouldn’t even have made him feel better for all that long. Mike was a friend, after all, and a good one. “They piss me off too, walking around like they own the damn place. But you know what happens if you start shit in school.”  
  
“Yeah,” Lance said, his lip curling in a sneer.  
  
It wasn’t the teachers they were worried about. Winslow teachers valued their own skins too much to risk them by trying to intervene in a righteous beat down. No, the trouble was that Winslow was Shadow Stalker’s turf, and the so-called hero tended to take a pretty fucking dim view of gang fights in her territory. And by ‘take a dim view’ he meant beat the shit out of everyone involved, no matter what side they were on. Empire, ABB, whoever the fuck else; she didn’t seem to give a shit. The bitch didn’t just stop at bruises, either, and since no one wanted to risk ending up crippled, they mostly just kept things to posturing and name-calling when they were on the school grounds, and saved the violence until they got outside the gates.  
  
“She must go here,” Sam said, sounding thoughtful. None of them had to ask who he was talking about.  
  
“Not this shit again.” Darren rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows the Wards go to Arcadia. Maybe she did go here, once, but she must’ve transferred when she joined up. And now she just keeps an eye on her old stomping grounds.”  
  
“No,” Sam insisted. “Think about it. She has to still be here. How would she know so much about what goes on otherwise?”  
  
“Old friends?” Darren sounded dismissive.  
  
“ **Even** if she does go here,” Mike said, a long-suffering note in his voice. “Do you really think you can figure out who she is? You really think it’ll be that easy? And, even if by some miracle you managed that, what would you do about it? Go after her in her civilian identity? The Protectorate would come down on you like a tonne of bricks.”  
  
“Only if they found out,” Sam said, sounding a little sullen. “Anyway, we wouldn’t have to do anything ourselves. We could just… pass the information on to certain interested parties.”  
  
Lance was only listening with half an ear by this point. This wasn’t exactly a new argument, and the longer it went on, the more Sam sounded like the whiny little bitch he was, and the more Lance’s hands itched to make him shut the fuck up. Not that Lance himself would mind putting that uppity bitch Shadow Stalker in her place if he had the chance, but Sam just wouldn’t shut up about her. Honestly, the fucker was obsessed. And more than a little creepy. The only reason they even let him hang around with them was because he was Mike’s cousin.  
  
Idly, Lance found himself wondering what Astrid was doing now. Would she have caught the first bus out of town? Would she have found somewhere to hole up? Could she be dead in a ditch somewhere?  
  
Nah, not the last one, he was pretty sure. She might be soft in some ways, but she knew how to fight. She could look after herself. Not to mention the fact that she had fucking **powers** now.  
  
A queasy mix of envy and anger churned inside him. Not fear, though. He wasn’t **afraid** of her, not even after what she’d done to him. He was just royally pissed off with her, that was all. So fucking furious he could barely even think straight. And he was going to make her pay for what she’d done.  
  
Except, after the old man was finished with her this time, he wasn’t sure there’d be a whole lot left that he could actually threaten her with.  
  
“Want to hang out for a bit, or do you need to get going?” Mike’s voice broke through his thoughts. They must have finished the argument while he wasn’t paying attention. Judging by the way Sam seemed to be sulking, it had gone pretty much the same way it always did.  
  
He thought about it for a moment. “I can hang out,” he said.  
  
Maybe spending some time with his friends — even with Sam clinging to them like a boil on the ass; about as ugly and twice as irritating — would help him simmer down a little. Anyway, the old man was in a fucking foul mood at the moment, which made the thought of going home less than appealing. He really did not need any more bruises right now.  
  
Or worse.  
  
The faintest shadow of pressure seemed to hover over the skin of his throat. He resisted the impulse to try to brush it away.  
  
“Great.” Mike grinned, and he leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And maybe we can have another chat about the possibility of you joining up properly. After all, you’re pretty much one of us in all but name.”  
  
As always, the mention of joining up with the Empire triggered a confusing mixture of pride, longing, frustration and apprehension. Sam excepted, he liked these guys, and it wasn’t like he didn’t agree with the gang’s goals. It was kind of flattering that they actively wanted him to join, especially with the hints that he could be so much more than just a low-level foot soldier. And it would be great for gathering intel. But the old man wasn’t keen, and he did have a point about the risks. He hadn’t exactly parted with them on good terms, and if Kaiser should find out that he had Throttle’s son in his clutches… Lance was under no illusions that such a situation would end well for him. But still, the risk was a small one. It was a decade and a half since all that shit went down, after all. Ancient fucking history.  
  
“We can chat about it,” he told Mike, returning his grin. “But I have to warn you my answer will probably be the same.”  
  
“Aw, don’t say that, man. You haven’t even heard my new pitch yet.” Mike clapped him on the shoulder.  
  
“Hey, Mike,” called Darren, waving him over. “Check this shit out.” Mike went over, and the two of them started watching something on Darren’s phone. Unfortunately, that meant that Sam ended up walking with Lance.  
  
“Hey,” Sam said.  
  
“What?” Lance replied. He didn’t make any attempt to keep the hostility out of his voice. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already made it abundantly clear to Sam that he couldn’t stand the fucker.  
  
“I didn’t see Astrid around today. Is she still sick?”  
  
Lance saw red. Without even really meaning to, he half-turned towards Sam, clenching his hands into fists. No, she wasn’t around, he wanted to say. She wasn’t around because she’d run off and **abandoned** them. Her own family, and she’d discarded them without so much as a second thought. She’d abandoned…  
  
She’d just…   
  
Just…  
  
She’d just left him to face the fucking music for what **she’d** done. Left him to take the heat for her weakness.  
  
Because who the fuck did she **think** the old man would take his temper out on until he got his hands on her again? Who the fuck did she think would be blamed? Even though he knew — he **knew** — that it didn’t have a fucking thing to do with anything he’d done. It was all the old man; he’d pushed her too hard, too fast. Expected too much of her. And she’d broken under the strain, just like Lance had said she would.  
  
He supposed he should be grateful that she’d just fled, rather than losing her shit in the middle of a goddamned mission.  
  
Not that he was going to say any of this, of course. He had to maintain the cover, no matter what. And even if he **could** say anything, he sure as shit wouldn’t say it to fucking **Sam**. It had always pissed him off, the way the little creep looked at her; the way he used to keep suggesting in that fake-casual way of his that maybe she might like to hang out with them sometimes, and maybe Lance could pass on the invitation. Once, Lance had caught him talking about her to one of the other guys, and the things he was saying…  
  
Sure, they all talked shit about girls sometimes. They weren’t fucking fags after all. But this was his own fucking **sister**. And she might be a stuck up bitch, and he might hate her more often than not, but there was no way he was going to let that shit stand. It was about respect, after all. How could any of the guys respect him if he let someone else disrespect his family like that. How could he respect himself?  
  
So he’d beaten the little bastard black and blue.  
  
Naturally, Sam had gone whining to Mike about it afterwards, and Mike had come and asked him: ‘What the fuck, man?’ Lance, however, had very clearly and calmly explained the situation — including the little details that Sam had obviously left out of his version of the story — and Mike had nodded and let it go. Sister trumped cousin, after all.  
  
Anyway, the irony was that Lance had probably done Sam a favour. Because if he’d said any of that shit to Astrid or, even worse, if he’d actually tried doing anything about it, **she** would’ve put him in the fucking **hospital**. Bitch was crazy sometimes. And when she got like that, the only thing that seemed to matter to her was making a motherfucker bleed. She didn’t even seem to care that the old man would take it out of her own hide afterwards.  
  
Right at this moment, Lance half-wished he’d let her be the one to teach Sam that lesson about respect.  
  
“Why do you want to know?” he growled at the little shit, just itching for an excuse to lash out.  
  
Sam backed up a couple of steps, looking alarmed. “Just asking! As a friend! I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation, that’s all.”  
  
Lance very seriously considered hauling off and pounding him anyway, but he tamped down the urge with an effort. Not because of Sam — seriously, the guy was just asking for a beating — but because he didn’t want to start anything with Mike. He made himself stand down, darkly amused at the way Sam swallowed nervously when their eyes met. Yeah, the asshole knew just how close it had been, and that was just fine with him.  
  
“Yeah, she’s still sick,” Lance told him, his tone clipped. Had to stick to the story, after all. “It’s hit her really hard.” Had to lay the groundwork for what might well turn into an extended absence. Not that he really expected her to stay on the lam all that long, but he was pretty sure the old man wasn’t going to let her out of the basement, let alone the house, until he was damn sure she wasn’t going to run again. And when you factored in recovery time as well…  
  
“Well, I hope she feels better soon,” Sam said hesitantly, sounding exactly like the weak little fuck that he was. Seriously, if it hadn’t been for the pretty fucking specific things Lance had heard him saying about Astrid, he might have started to suspect Sam of being a fag. Lance grunted in response, and started to turn away. But Sam, apparently not having the sense or the survival instinct God gave a snail, kept on talking. “Will you tell her-“  
  
“Sam,” Lance snarled, whirling back around and getting right up in his face. “Stop. Fucking. Talking.”  
  
Jesus fucking **Christ**. Did he **want** Lance to smack the shit out of him? And, much though he knew it would be a really bad idea to piss off Mike, he really found himself hoping that Sam wouldn’t take the fucking **hint** , that he’d give Lance a reason to stop fighting his instincts and just cut loose…  
  
But no. Today would not, apparently, be that day. Paling visibly, Sam zipped his trap shut and scuttled away.  
  
What a fucking pussy.  
  
Lance stalked restlessly after the others, grimly amused that Mike and Darren also seemed to be giving him something of a wide berth. He guessed he wasn’t exactly making an effort to hide how tightly wound he was right now. Not like he made a habit of beating on his friends, but today… Yeah, it was probably wise of them to give him a little space.  
  
Movement up ahead and across the street drew his gaze. He paused for a moment as he realised just what he was looking at, and then a slow smile spread over his face.  
  
Fucking **finally**.  
  
He hurried a little to catch up with the other guys, gesturing to get Mike’s attention.  
  
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Look over there.” He nodded towards the other side of the street. Mike, Darren and Sam glanced in the indicated direction and sneered.  
  
“They’ve got some fucking nerve,” Mike growled. “Look at ‘em, acting like they own the whole fucking street.”  
  
Fuckers might not have been the same slant-eyes from earlier, might not have even been wearing colours. But the important thing was that they were right fucking **here** and, this time, there was nothing stopping Lance from doing what he wanted.  
  
His grin widened as he slid his bag to the ground and rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. Anticipation made his heart beat just a little bit faster, adrenaline buzzing along his nerves, making him feel alive. God, he loved this part — these moments when violence was inevitable, but before the fists and feet started flying — almost as much as the fight itself. Almost.  
  
“Let’s teach them a lesson,” he murmured, not even waiting for the chorus of agreement from the others before he started to step forward. Naturally, that was when his phone beeped. And he very nearly ignored it, but that was the tone he used for the old man’s messages, and ignoring a message from the old man was a surefire way to find himself being hauled down to the basement when he got home. “Fuck,” he breathed, fishing out his phone. “Hold up a moment, guys.”  
  
He appreciated that they waited for him. Even Sam, although that was likely because he was too chickenshit to wade in by himself. The message was short and to the point, same as always: ‘Get back here ASAP.’  
  
Well, shit. What did that mean? Aside from the obvious. Had his wayward sister come crawling back? Had something happened to her? Could she have been captured, or worse?  
  
“Do you need to go?” Mike asked quietly, as he texted an acknowledgement. It wasn’t like they weren’t used to him having to leave suddenly on occasion.  
  
He considered briefly, and then made a decision.  
  
“Yeah, but I can stay for a little bit longer.” His grin returned, just a little too wide, and probably only just this side of deranged. “Guess we’ll just have to make this quick!”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Lance got off the bus a stop early, too wired from the fight to sit still any longer. Maybe a short jog would help him burn off some of the restless energy that seemed to zip along his nerves, making everything that much sharper, that much brighter.  
  
Not that it had really been much of a fight. Those slant-eyed motherfuckers hadn’t known what had hit them. One of them had been down on the ground before the rest of them seemed to realise they were even in trouble. And after that…  
  
 **Fuck** , that had felt good. Even if the others **had** looked at him a little bit strangely, a little bit warily, as he took his leave. And, yeah, maybe he had been a little wilder than usual, but fuck it. He’d really fucking needed that.  
  
Despite the jog that somehow ended up turning into more of a sprint by the end, he was still buzzing a little when he reached the house. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths as he opened the front door, schooling his expression and posture into stillness despite the urge to move. By the time he crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him, he was perfectly in control. At least on the surface.  
  
“Come through to the sitting room.”  
  
His old man spoke before he’d even finished taking off his jacket and shoes. The words were crisp and clear, very, very precisely enunciated in that way that said the old man was about as close to epically losing his shit as he ever got. The sound of it made Lance’s newest bruises throb as if they anticipated gaining a few more friends.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” he replied automatically. Distantly, he noticed that there was blood on one of his shoes. He’d have to make sure to clean that before it stained. Assuming that this, whatever it was, didn’t take too long.  
  
The old man was pacing back and forth as Lance entered the sitting room and came to attention. That was also not a good sign. In lieu of explaining what this was about, he held out a few crumpled pieces of paper and said:  
  
“Read that.”  
  
Puzzled, Lance accepted the papers and started to read, his eyes widening as he realised what he was reading; what those papers meant. Some phrases in particular stood out.  
  
‘Child Protective Services’ and ’emergency removal order’ were two such phrases.  
  
‘Evidence of severe physical abuse’ and ‘risk of further harm’ were two more.  
  
There was more, much more, but those were the salient parts; the ones that his eyes kept flicking back to.  
  
“What the fuck?” he breathed, his head spinning as he tried to process this. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, wasn’t addressing it to the old man — he would’ve been a fuck of a lot more respectful if he had been — but the old man replied anyway.  
  
“It seems that your sister has gotten herself officially removed from my custody and put into the fucking **system**.” The words started out deceptively mild, but the last word ended up a growl.  
  
“Do you think she went to them deliberately, Sir? Or just ended up getting picked up somehow?”  
  
The old man shook his head. “No fucking idea. But what I **do** know is that she gave them that information.” He gestured at the papers that Lance was still clutching in his hands. Lance, half-expecting the gesture to turn into a blow, had to suppress a flinch. “Voluntarily.” The last word was pronounced with such disgust that it sounded like an obscenity.  
  
Lance swallowed, trying to get his thoughts in order, trying to get his head around the incongruous notion that Astrid hadn’t just run away from home, she’d actually let herself get put in the system. They’d been **warned** about that; about what a fucking bad idea it was. What the fuck had she been thinking? Had she really done this of her own accord, or had someone forced her into it?  
  
“Are you sure it was…” He licked suddenly dry lips. “Voluntary, Sir?”  
  
The look the old man turned on him was thoroughly scathing, making him feel about an inch tall.  
  
“What,” he said, sarcastically. “You think she cracked under the pressure of a few questions from some social worker pussy?”  
  
“Well…” Okay, when he put it that way. “No, Sir. But she could be in enemy hands. This could be a ploy to draw us out into the open.”  
  
The restlessness was back, and worse than ever, but this wasn’t just the adrenaline high of a fight. This was something else; a powerful urge to get out there and **do** something. To track her down. Because, fuck, he might hate her, and she might have brought this on herself by running, but that didn’t mean he’d willingly leave her in the clutches of someone like Kaiser. Or, shit, any of the other enemies they’d made by ripping off the other gangs. Sure, they were careful not to leave traces that might lead anyone back to them, but mistakes did happen. And if one of those mistakes had gotten his sister captured and…  
  
“Doubtful.” That single, contemptuous word drew Lance out of his increasingly frantic thoughts. “First of all.” He hated it when the old man used that overly patient tone. “If our enemies — any of them — had got hold of our identities, they wouldn’t just have me served with a fucking…” He glowered at the papers still clutched in Lance’s hands. “Emergency removal order. They’d have tried to take me out. Use your fucking head, boy.”  
  
Lance gritted his teeth, trying not to glare.  
  
“And second, Sir?”  
  
Because if there was a first, there pretty much had to be a second.  
  
“Second,” the old man said. “She wouldn’t break that easily. I’ve trained her better than that.”  
  
But if she hadn’t been captured, if she hadn’t been broken, then that meant she’d… **Fuck**! She’d compromised their civilian identities, and she’d done it **deliberately**.  
  
That fucking **bitch**!  
  
Rage set his heart racing like an express train, made it hard to catch his breath, and it took just about all his willpower not to storm out and find someone to hit. No, not someone. **Her**. If she was here right now, it wouldn’t be the old man she’d have to worry about, it would be him. He already knew what the old man was going to say next, but even so, the words still sent a chill down his spine.  
  
“We’re leaving. Pack what you need. We won’t be coming back here again.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Lance looked around his room. He supposed it was still his room for the moment, even though it wouldn’t be for too much longer.  
  
Another move. Another fucking name change. God, how many would that be now? He didn’t even know any more. He supposed he should be grateful he at least got to keep his first name.  
  
God-fucking-dammit!  
  
He was going to have to leave his friends. Again. Uproot his whole fucking life. Again. And it was all her fault. A-fucking-gain! Of course they had to move to Brockton Bay in time for the old man’s precious fucking daughter to start high school. After all, it was important to minimise any possible disruption to her education, wasn’t it? Never fucking mind that Lance had settled into high school already; that he had friends there. That, unlike her, he’d actually made a life for himself outside their house. A life he was expected to just drop on command.  
  
Just like now.  
  
He didn’t even know where the fuck they were even going. A safe house, probably. Some shitty abandoned building somewhere that the old man had previously earmarked. Or, maybe he’d be really lucky and it would be some no-tell motel instead. Hell, at this point he’d be happy with somewhere that had power and running water.  
  
He wasn’t getting his hopes up.  
  
Anyway, that was only the short term. Who the fuck knew what the plan was for after that? Staying in town, almost certainly. It might have been sensible to leave for a while, but Lance had the feeling that the old man would want to track the bitch down as soon as possible. Just because she hadn’t outed them yet didn’t mean that she wouldn’t, if left to her own devices long enough. And while Lance couldn’t believe, quite, that she would actually do that to them, he wouldn’t have thought she’d just fucking **run** either.  
  
Without really intending to, he found himself wandering over to her room, like there were any answers there. The door — well, what was left of it — was leaning against the wall next to the frame. The old man had had to break it down to get inside. She’d sealed it shut somehow. That had been the first clue that there was something wrong. Lance had been sent to fetch her so they could get on with planning her blooding, but the door wouldn’t open when he tried to barge his way in. And there was no reply when he hammered on it. He’d hesitated a moment or two about whether he should fetch the old man or not, but then he’d thought… What if she’d done something stupid?  
  
She had, of course. Just not the stupid thing he’d thought.  
  
Parts of her room looked like a bomb had hit it; items of furniture reduced to small piles of dust and splinters. What had she done? Just wandered around ripping things apart with her power?  
  
Her fucking **power**.  
  
It was hard to breathe for a moment or two, the memory of wire coiling around his throat so vivid that it was as if it was happening all over again, and… and… Fuck!  
  
How could she have done that to him? He hadn’t even been planning to hurt her all that much; just enough to remind her that he was still stronger than she was. But then she’d gone and turned her powers on him. She’d… That was the one thing they never, ever did to each other. Sure, they practiced chokeholds and shit like that in training. But when they fought for real… They just didn’t do it. It wasn’t one of the old man’s rules, it was one of theirs.  
  
And she’d fucking broken it.  
  
The worst part about it had been the look in her eyes. So fucking **cold**. She’d had him there, helpless, and she hadn’t even seemed pissed off. She’d looked at him like he wasn’t even human.  
  
He shook himself, pushing the memory aside as he stepped into her room and looked around. He didn’t even know what he was looking for, not really. It felt weird, being in here without having to keep an ear out for her coming back. Or without her snapping at him to get the fuck out of her room. It felt…  
  
Shit.  
  
He still couldn’t believe she’d actually fucking run. And as for that emergency removal order bullshit… What the hell? What ‘evidence’ were they talking about? A few fucking cuts and bruises? Seriously? Shit, they’d both had worse than that before. They’d probably done worse to each other during some of their nastier fights. How fucking squeamish were those CPS people?  
  
God, what the fuck had she been thinking? Abandoning her family? Throwing herself on the mercy of the fucking system?  
  
Why?  
  
Why would she just fucking **leave**?  
  
Not that he’d ever wanted a sister in the first place, but she’d just kind of… always been there. Fucking annoying bitch that she was. Pissing him off. Picking fights with him, even if she couldn’t win them. But he supposed he’d just… gotten used to her being around. To knowing there was someone else there who understood what it was like. Who’d been through the same things he had.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
But when she’d gotten blooded, well, that would have been another thing they’d have had in common. And maybe that would have been enough to…  
  
Fuck. Things had used to be good between them, hadn’t they? When they were little?  
  
When did everything get so fucked up?  
  
And now she was gone, and he felt so confused right now. Part of him was relieved that she was gone, but then…  
  
Fuck, he **really** wanted to hit someone.  
  
“Lance? Are you ready?” The old man’s voice made him start a little.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” he said, hurrying back to his room to pick up his bags.  
  
“Then let’s go.”  
  
This was it, then.  
  
And as the house burned behind them, he couldn’t help thinking.  
  
‘You’d better keep running, Triss. And you’d better pray the old man doesn’t find you.’  
  
It was the nearest he could get to wishing her luck.


	13. Agoraphobia 2.01

I shifted around in my seat, cursing the designer of this particular piece of furniture. It was like it had been put together with the express purpose of being as uncomfortable as possible. Even if I’d been completely free of injuries — and, honestly, I couldn’t even remember the last time that had been true — I doubted that sitting on this thing would have been anything approaching comfortable. And what kind of sadist would put it in a fucking waiting room? All the chairs were the bloody same, too. I’d checked.  
  
Maybe I should just disintegrate them all and do all those future unfortunates who might otherwise end up sitting on them a favour.  
  
For one brief, glorious moment, I indulged myself in imagining doing just that, but I knew I wasn’t going to actually do it. Starting off my career as a Ward by committing a random act of property damage in the PRT building hardly seemed like a wise move.  
  
No matter how fucking good I knew it would feel.  
  
(I tried to ignore the increasing, somewhat disquieting sense that something had changed in me since getting my powers. I mean, I’d always had a temper, sure, and it wasn’t like I’d never lashed out physically in anger. It wasn’t even like I’d never broken something when I did lash out. But I’d never — or, at least, only rarely — felt such an intense urge to rip something apart down to the molecular level. And breaking stuff had sure as shit never felt so goddamn **satisfying**.)  
  
(Was this a temporary thing? Was it even anything to do with my powers, or just a side-effect of the stress of the past week?)  
  
(And how fucking disturbing was it that I really couldn’t tell?)  
  
Not that I was a Ward yet, of course. Wouldn’t be until tomorrow, assuming everything went to plan. Gallant had spoken to one of the on-call lawyers, and then I’d spoken to her, and it had been decided that I would stay here in the building tonight, and then we’d deal with all the paperwork in the morning. Assuming I still wanted to go ahead and join, that was.  
  
I half-wondered if Gallant had pushed for me to have the chance to sleep on it, but I couldn’t think of a way to ask him that without coming across as hostile. Or pathetically grateful. Not that I could really imagine changing my mind at this point, but I’d undoubtedly feel better about the decision in the long run if I thought it over a little more before signing on the dotted line.  
  
There were, however, a few things that needed to be taken care of tonight. Which was why I was currently waiting out here on this fucking uncomfortable chair while Gallant was being debriefed by the PRT duty officer. I could only assume that, as well as running down the highlights of my situation — as least as far as he knew them — he’d also be giving his opinion on how much of a potential danger I was. Not that I was planning on doing anything untoward, but, well, they didn’t know that. And not that I really thought I’d be able to take on the PRT even if I **had** wanted to. Although I didn’t see how Gallant could really be expected to provide anything like an accurate threat assessment. It wasn’t like he had anything but my word that my intentions here were honourable, and what he’d seen of my power a week ago was hardly an accurate measure of what I could do with it now.  
  
Frankly, I was half-surprised they hadn’t just searched me and my stuff, taken away anything that might possibly — or even improbably — have been a weapon, stuck me in a holding cell and commenced interrogating me about my powers and intentions. Not that I was complaining about the fact that they hadn’t done that. Or, at least, that they hadn’t done so yet. It was just…  
  
For a government sponsored paramilitary organisation, the PRT seemed to be **awfully** lax about the security of its headquarters. Or maybe that was just a Brockton Bay thing.  
  
I tried again to find an at least not entirely uncomfortable way to sit on this stupid fucking rotten bastard of a chair, but without success. All I managed to do was remind myself that being smacked by the remains of a training dummy hurled by someone with brute strength tended to leave a bit of a mark. Even if you were reasonably sure that they hadn’t **actually** thrown it as hard as they could have done. (And that if they **had** used their full strength, you’d have almost certainly ended up with a broken back.) It also occurred to me that the several hours long car journey, followed by the panicked flight across town, followed by the ride in the back of a van, followed by yet more sitting, had also probably not helped my condition in the slightest.  
  
I **really** hoped that I’d be able to have a shower sometime soon, or at least that the PRT kept ice packs on hand.  
  
Maybe I should get up and move around a little. But, then again, I was feeling pretty fucking wiped. Just staying upright in the chair seemed to be taking enough effort right now. I dithered for a moment or two, and maybe the fact that I was having such trouble choosing between sitting and standing was a sign that perhaps I really shouldn’t be making life-changing decisions right at the moment. Whatever. In any case, I remained seated in the end, shifting position a little so I could lightly rest my fingertips on the wall.  
  
Carefully, I let my power dance through the bonds that held the building together. I wasn’t trying to map it out in detail, just get an overall feel for it. It was good practice. And, I hoped, a good distraction. Plus, I had a hypothesis I wanted to confirm.  
  
(I very carefully didn’t let myself think about how, on some level, it kind of felt like I was claiming the building with my power. Like I was making it **mine** , somehow. Because that shit was just all kinds of disturbing.)  
  
It was definitely a fuck of a lot easier than when I’d tried to do something like this with the mall. Not that I’d really had the first clue what I was doing back then, of course. Heh. ‘Back then.’ It had only been a fucking week. Well, eight days, if I was going to get technical about it, but it felt like longer. Much longer. I guessed it had been a pretty fucking intense eight days. Anyway, it wasn’t like I really knew what I was doing right now, I guessed, but I at least had a bit more information to work with.  
  
I let my senses expand, a little at a time, layering detail on my mental map until I felt the first, brief stab of pain, like a needle darting right through my eye to bury itself deep in my brain. And then I dialled it back again, keeping it at — I hoped — just below the threshold that would trigger a full-blown migraine. Even keeping it at that level, there was still a fucktonne of data pouring in. Much more than I thought I should really be capable of sorting through, honestly. Which meant that my ability obviously included some kind of enhanced processing capacity. I made a mental note to check whether that only worked on information gained through my power, or if it could be applied more generally. Because, shit, that kind of information analysis and multitasking capability would be a fucking **godsend** on the battlefield. I hadn’t noticed anything like that outside of using my power, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. I’d have to test it out.  
  
But, one experiment at a time.  
  
Okay. I had the building in my grasp. And I was still a little awed at the fact that I could actually **do** that; just reach out and (claim) sense a whole goddamn structure from its foundations all the way up to its highest point. (Even if I did have to shove down a queasy flare of horror as it reminded me of what Dad had wanted me to use that ability for.) The PRT building was so much bigger than the cabin, or the house, not to mention more complex _(arrangements of components and wires whose purpose I couldn’t even guess at)_ but that… It didn’t seem to matter. I mean, sure, there was more information to process, but that was just a matter of scale. Of quantity. Qualitatively… It was the same. It felt the same.  
  
More than that, it was the same as my clothes, or my metal, or my phone, or even this fucking chair. It was… I’d been thinking of my power the wrong way, I realised, mentally kicking myself for my stupidity. It didn’t work on substances per se. It worked on **objects**. Which, in hindsight, was pretty fucking obvious. After all, I hadn’t needed to open up a cellphone to sense the components within; just touching the case was enough. But the buildings really should have been a massive fucking clue. I… kind of felt like an idiot for not putting the pieces together sooner.  
  
But that raised a couple of really interesting questions. What, exactly, counted as an ‘object’ to my power? And how flexible was the definition?  
  
When I’d destroyed my desk, the drawers had been disintegrated, but not their contents. So, hypothesis one: in order to count as part of an object for the purposes of my power, a component must be physically attached to the main structure.  
  
I looked around the waiting room, trying to focus my power on various items in turn. Carpet: yes. Chairs: only the one I was sitting on, and that only because my other hand was in direct contact with it. So, no. Water cooler: no. Wall shelves: yes. Window blinds: yes, although I’d actually been expecting the opposite. Fire extinguisher: no, although the brackets holding it to the wall showed up just fine. Sprinkler system: yes, but I would have been surprised if it hadn’t.  
  
Not conclusive, but I was inclined to provisionally accept the hypothesis pending further tests.  
  
Onto hypothesis two, then: if an object consists of physically attached components, then I should be able to treat items that are physically connected as a single object. Like… I scanned through the building, looking for something I could use as a test subject. Metal pipes… The water supply. Okay, that should do. I focused my power, sent it questing through the pipes, reached the boundary of the building… and stopped.  
  
Hmm.  
  
I tried again, with much the same result. A third time just to be sure, and… Huh. So my awareness of the pipes stopped at the point at which they left the building. Which made no fucking sense whatsoever, if you asked me. They were continuous. I should have been able to sense them. But it was like they just ceased to exist once they exited the building. Okay, how about the electrical grid? I found the wires, followed them to the edge of the building… and then nothing. Just like the pipes. That was… vexing. Like, seriously fucking vexing.  
  
Maybe I needed contact with the pipes or the wires themselves? Okay, I would definitely have to test that at some point.  
  
Hypothesis neither accepted nor rejected, pending further tests.  
  
Provisional conclusion: my power, as far as I could tell, seemed to be downright fucking whimsical.  
  
And, now that I was thinking about it, how did turning part of a footpath to glass fit into the whole ‘object’ hypothesis? Was the footpath an object? I guessed that actually kind of made a sort of sense, maybe. To my power's crazy moon logic, anyway. I already knew I could selectively affect only parts of a thing, after all. But what about…  
  
Ugh. This was making my head hurt.  
  
Anyway, I should probably leave the building be. Surely the duty officer was going to call me in soon. Okay, I would let the building go.  
  
In a moment or two.  
  
I idly traced out the various parts and subsystems of the building, comparing how my power felt now with how it had felt earlier, when I’d almost ripped my house apart. It seemed… I didn’t know; less powerful, maybe? Like it took more effort to do less? Like I needed more focus to make it do what I wanted? Earlier… I hadn’t even had to think about what I was doing. I just reached out and it was all **there** , waiting for me. And shredding those bonds had taken less thought than drawing a breath. It really had felt like I’d been able to sense every single bond making up the house, and I hadn’t even felt the slightest twinge of pain. Now… Well, I definitely wasn’t sensing all the bonds, but then I was very carefully limiting my awareness. I thought… I mean, I wasn’t one hundred per cent certain, but I thought I **could** do the same with the PRT building that I’d done with the house, despite its greater size and complexity. But I was also pretty sure that it would give me the mother of all migraines.  
  
I probably would test it at some point, but this wasn’t really the time.  
  
Carefully, gently, I flexed my power the tiniest, most infinitesimal amount; the equivalent of just lightly poking at the bonds holding it all together. Honestly, it was mainly just to prove to myself that I could. Doing so actually felt kind of… nice? Comforting, almost. But then I guessed there was something a little reassuring about knowing that, if I wanted to, if I **needed** to, I could use the building itself as a weapon.  
  
And then it hit me.  
  
 **Fuck.**  
  
I really could bring this whole goddamn building down around my ears if I wanted to. I mean, I guessed I already knew that, at least in principle. Dad had obviously figured it out, given what he’d wanted me to do for my blooding. And I knew what I’d almost done to the house when I had my little freak out. But somehow, this felt more… real. Just from calmly and logically exploring my power, I knew that I could absolutely wreck this place. If I felt like it. If I panicked and lashed out with my power. Maybe even by accident if I just got carried away poking at things. Honestly, I didn’t even think it would be that hard. I didn’t have to rip the whole thing to pieces, after all; just break a few load-bearing structures in the right way and let the combination of gravity and shear forces do the rest.  
  
And they’d just let me walk right in here without so much as a by your leave.  
  
I mean, I wouldn’t do it; of course I wouldn’t. I’d never do anything like that. I didn’t want to kill anyone. I didn’t even want to hurt anyone, not really. It was why I’d fucking **run** for Christ’s sake. But the realisation hit me like a tonne of bricks, harder even than when Dad had had me start ripping apart training dummies. I was fucking **dangerous**. And I wasn’t even anywhere near the most powerful cape out there.  
  
What the fuck was I letting myself in for by joining the Wards?  
  
I knew I wasn’t going to change my mind, but this was definitely something that merited some serious thought. I was going to be fighting capes. Other capes, that was. And while that always had been Dad’s plan for me in his crusade against the Empire, it suddenly felt a whole fuck of a lot more immediate. And I was very bloody uncomfortably aware that for all my power, for all the destruction I could wreak if I had a mind to, I was still awfully squishy.  
  
Maybe I should see about investing in some armour.  
  
With some reluctance, I let go of the building and resettled myself in my seat.  
  
On the plus side, at least I now had something to distract myself from how sore I was.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

What with one thing and another, I was actually pretty fucking relieved when Gallant came to usher me in to see the duty officer, who turned out to be a fit looking man in his forties seated behind a desk. He was dressed in a suit, rather than a PRT uniform, but something about him made me think ‘soldier.’ More than that: ‘commander.’ I found myself standing to attention automatically.  
  
“Astrid, this is Captain Cavendish,” Gallant told me. “He’s going to take you through the paperwork and arrange somewhere for you to stay.”  
  
Gallant had asked me if I had a cape name I’d prefer to use, but I’d told him that Astrid was fine.  
  
I sure as shit wasn’t planning on going by ‘Razorwire’ anytime ever, and I didn’t have the first clue what cape name I might actually choose for myself.  
  
“Good evening, Astrid,” Captain Cavendish said briskly, his gaze flicking over me; assessing. “It’s nice to meet you.” He got to his feet and raised his hand. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching, only to realise a heartbeat later that he was just holding out his hand to shake.  
  
Shit.  
  
Now I felt like a fool.  
  
I hoped vainly that neither he nor Gallant had noticed me twitch.  
  
“You too, Sir,” I said, shaking the offered hand. His grip was firm, but not crushing. My wrist twinged anyway, reminding me that I should probably ice it again sometime soon if I could.  
  
“No need to be so formal,” the captain said, giving me a small smile. “Just Cavendish is fine. Or Cav, which is what most people here call me. Or even Owen, since that’s my name.”  
  
I hoped I didn’t look quite as poleaxed as I felt. Call him by his name? Or a… a nickname? I wasn’t sure I could do that. It felt disrespectful. (And disrespect was always punished.) So I just nodded awkwardly and didn’t say anything.  
  
“Both of you, please take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk.  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said automatically.  
  
Captain Cavendish gave me a thoughtful look, but didn’t say anything as I carefully sat on the seat nearest the door, stowing my bag underneath. I appreciated that Gallant waited for me to pick a chair before settling himself into the other one. A little surprised that it would take the weight of his power armour without collapsing, I quickly analysed the structure of my own chair and discovered it to be much sturdier than I would have expected. I guessed that made sense for a building that must get a fair amount of cape traffic. Frankly, all I really cared about at the moment was that it was more comfortable than the chairs they had in the waiting room. Not by much, perhaps, but enough to be noticeable.  
  
“Right,” the captain said, sitting back down and pulling his keyboard a little closer towards him. “I’ll keep this brief. The situation as I understand it is that you’re a recently active parahuman considering joining the Wards, and that you’re in need of safe accommodation for tonight. Is that correct?”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
In my peripheral vision, I could see Gallant turn his head slightly, looking at me. I wondered what was going through his head.  
  
Captain Cavendish nodded and typed something on the computer.  
  
“Is your power something you can safely demonstrate?”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
“Then will you please do so?”  
  
For a moment, I was paralysed, not sure what to do, but then I mentally kicked myself. Pushing up one of my sleeves, I made metal flow over my skin. I almost started to form it into wires, but stopped myself at the last moment, just making it move a little before returning it to its place and letting it sink back into quiescence.  
  
I glanced up at the captain and was a little startled to see him staring at my arm. His eyes were narrowed, and he was frowning deeply. He looked… actually kind of pissed off. No, make that really fucking furious. Was it…? Was he angry about my metal? Should I have left it behind after all?  
  
I folded my hands in my lap. My throat felt dry all of a sudden, and I had to swallow before I could speak.  
  
“Did I do something wrong, Sir?” I asked quietly.  
  
“What?” His gaze snapped up to meet mine, his expression startled now, rather than angry. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”  
  
I froze, my mind going blank as I frantically searched for something to say. Fortunately, Gallant spoke up.  
  
“Cav,” he said, dryly, and I almost choked at both his tone, and the fact that he was actually addressing the captain by a nickname. “You looked like you’d just tripped over a pile of incorrectly filled out incident reports.”  
  
I couldn’t quite believe he would actually speak that way to the captain. I cringed a little inside, half expecting him to be disciplined right then and there for not showing the proper respect, but Captain Cavendish just looked… rueful? He didn’t even seem a little bit angry. And now I definitely knew what **that** looked like.  
  
“Ah,” he said. “That bad, huh?”  
  
“Pretty much,” Gallant said lightly.  
  
Maybe Captain Cavendish wasn’t part of the Wards’ chain of command, then. Not that I was really going to ask that right now. In any case, the captain returned his attention to me, and he looked serious.  
  
“It’s not you I’m mad at, Astrid,” he said quietly. “It’s the person who did that to you.”  
  
He gestured towards my arm, and I glanced down, trying to figure out what the problem was. My wrist was still a little swollen, I guessed. And there was a distinctly hand-shaped bruise where Dad had grabbed me. Plus various other cuts, bruises and scrapes that I’d picked up during the week. I pulled my sleeve back down to cover them up.  
  
“It’s not as bad as it looks, Sir,” I said, my tone as neutral as I could make it.  
  
His lips thinned, and even though he’d said he wasn’t angry at me, I couldn’t help the shiver that ran down my spine.  
  
“Well, it looks pretty bad,” he told me. “I have a daughter around your age, and I know how I’d feel if I saw marks like that on her.”  
  
I said nothing. I wasn’t entirely sure why he was telling me this. Wasn’t it really fucking unwise to share information about his family with a strange parahuman who’d just wandered in off the street? He was just lucky I wasn’t someone who would use that detail — use his daughter — against him.  
  
Anyway, what was he so worked up about? It was just a few cuts and bruises.  
  
“Do you want me to take you to the infirmary when we’re done here?” Gallant asked me.  
  
“No, that’s alright,” I said quickly. The response was largely automatic — hospitals and doctors were something to be avoided, not sought out — but, a moment’s thought confirmed my first instinct. The last thing I wanted right now was to be poked and prodded by a complete stranger. Even the thought of it made my heart bet a little faster, and I was on edge enough as it was. Apparently. What if I… If I panicked when the doctor tried to examine me? What if I lost control of my power? (What if I hurt someone?) “It’s really not that bad,” I tried again, doing my best to sound convincing. That should have been easy, considering it was the truth. “Nothing’s broken. There’s no serious damage.”  
  
Captain Cavendish muttered something under his breath. I couldn’t really make out much of it, but from the word or two I could decipher, it sounded like he was swearing. He took a deep breath.  
  
“It would probably be a good idea for a doctor to take a look at you, just in case.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, considering how angry he seemed to be right now. Shit. I really hoped he wasn’t going to order me to go to the infirmary. Fortunately, he continued: “But it’s up to you. If you do change your mind, though, it’s staffed 24/7. Just ask me or one of the Wards to take you. Failing that, anyone in the building should be able to direct you there.”  
  
“Understood, Sir.” I said quietly. I hesitated a moment, and then added: “Thank you.”  
  
“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, and I couldn’t for the life of me read his expression or his tone right now. “It really is the very least I can do.” He straightened in his seat, his tone businesslike as he continued. “Right. Let’s get on with this.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said quietly. Even though I couldn’t help thinking that he was the one who’d gotten distracted and derailed the process. Not that I was going to **say** that, of course.  
  
(Ending up in the basement before even officially joining the Wards would hardly be the most auspicious beginning ever.)  
  
“I asked you to demonstrate your power because the procedure requires me to confirm that you’re a parahuman if possible,” Captain Cavendish explained, clicking the mouse a couple of times and entering a few words into whatever forms he had loaded up on his computer. “It just makes certain jurisdictional things easier later on.” He didn’t seem to be expecting a response, so I remained silent. “Do you have a cape name?”  
  
“No, Sir. Not yet.”  
  
“That’s fine. I’ll just put down your first name for now. The PRT will require your full name, etc, if you do go ahead and join the Wards, but that’s not necessary at this stage.”  
  
I frowned a little.  
  
“Why not, Sir?”  
  
“Identity protection,” he said succinctly. “If parahumans had to reveal their civilian identities just to **ask** about joining up with the Wards or Protectorate, we’d barely get any recruits. More than that, it’s in everyone’s best interests to keep lines of communication open. That’s why there are procedures in place for this sort of thing.”  
  
I hadn’t really thought about that, but it made a surprising amount of sense. Still seemed risky as hell to let people just walk in without so much of a by your leave, but then what did I know?  
  
“Okay. Now we get to the fun part.” The irony in Captain Cavendish’s voice was almost a palpable force. The printer behind him started up suddenly, spitting out a few pages. He gave me a wry smile as he scooped them up and slid them across the desk to me. “This is the standard PRT nondisclosure agreement, which you are required to read and sign before we go any further. Essentially, you have to agree to keep quiet about any confidential information you might come across during the course of your dealings with the PRT, the Wards and the Protectorate. Including, but not limited to, details about the civilian identities of any parahumans you encounter. There’s more to it than that, of course, and I’m afraid there’s a fair amount of legalese and jargon to wade through, but that’s the big one.”  
  
I blinked.  
  
“I thought there were already laws about that, Sir.”  
  
“Oh, there are,” he said, seeming amused. “But the powers that be think it’s worth reminding everyone of the… gravity of the situation. More to the point, it means that no one who makes to this point can possibly claim ignorance if they do let something slip.” His demeanour grew serious again as he added: “I want to make it clear that this isn’t committing you to joining the Wards or anything like that. It’s required of everyone — parahuman and otherwise — who has any kind of dealings with these organisations.”  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said. It certainly sounded sensible enough, if perhaps a little pointless. I picked up the papers and started reading, skimming them through once and then going back to read a little more closely. I hoped I wasn’t annoying the captain by keeping him waiting, but I wanted to make sure I knew what I was actually agreeing to before signing anything. As far as I could tell, though, it seemed to be exactly what he’d said it was. I looked up again. “Could I borrow a pen, Sir?”  
  
I thought I might have shoved my pencil case in my bag, but I couldn’t remember. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to rootle through my things in front of them.  
  
“Of course.” He pulled one out of a pot on his desk and handed it to me. I went to sign and date where indicated, but then hesitated. “Just writing your first name is fine,” Captain Cavendish said, like he knew exactly what I’d been wondering. He smiled. “Honestly, it doesn’t matter that much what you actually put there as long as you put something to indicate that you’ve read, understood and agreed to the contents.”  
  
“Please tell me you didn’t say that to Clockblocker,” Gallant said, sounding amused. “Because I dread to think what he would have written down.”  
  
Captain Cavendish laughed.  
  
“Alas, I didn’t have the particular pleasure of processing his initial intake. But I’m sure Lysowski will have a few stories to tell if you ask her nicely.”  
  
“I might just do that.”  
  
I tried not to be too obvious about studying the two of them as I signed and dated where indicated on the papers. (Seriously: how many times did I really need to say that I agreed not to blab, and that I understood that there would be terrible, awful, dire consequences if I did?) They seemed pretty… informal. Friendly, even. More like coworkers than a superior officer and a subordinate, which would seem to support them not being part of the same chain of command.  
  
I really hoped that when I joined, I’d be briefed properly about whose orders I was supposed to follow.  
  
“Finished, Sir,” I said, handing the papers and pen back.  
  
“Thank you.” He checked them over — presumably to make sure I hadn’t missed a signature — and then set them to one side, turning his attention to his computer. “I’ve had a message from Ms Cortez.” That was the lawyer I’d spoken to. “She’s going to arrange three appointments for you tomorrow. The first one will be with the Wards’ Youth Guard liaison, who’ll be acting as your advocate and will accompany you in the subsequent meetings. The second will be with one of our in-house CPS specialists, and the third will be with someone from HR. If you do decide you want to go ahead and sign up, the HR rep will be the one who deals with that side of things.”  
  
I blinked at him, feeling a little overwhelmed  
  
No, not a little.  
  
I felt **really** fucking overwhelmed right now, and I must have done a pretty piss-poor job of hiding it because Captain Cavendish smiled kindly at me.  
  
“I know it sounds like quite a full day, but they tend to be pretty good about getting through these things reasonably quickly.”  
  
God, I hoped so. Because I was not looking forward to a full day of meetings.  
  
“Do you have any information about when and where the meetings are likely to be, Sir?”  
  
“I’m afraid not,” he said. “But someone will contact you tomorrow morning to let you know the schedule, probably after nine am.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir.” I would have preferred a more concrete time, but it was a relief to have even this much.  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said. “The next thing to do now is sort out your accommodation for the night. I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to stay in the Wards HQ. Issues with identity protection.” I guessed that meant that one or more of the Wards would be staying in the HQ tonight. “Fortunately, we have a few rooms in the main part of the building set up as crash spaces. For those times when you end up finishing way too late to be safe driving home. Or when circumstances conspire to make you pull a triple shift. Even though you’re supposed to be on annual leave, packing for a holiday you’re not even sure you’re going to be able to make.”  
  
“That sounds like an awfully specific example,” Gallant observed, grinning a little.  
  
Captain Cavendish sighed heavily, but his eyes sparkled in reflection of Gallant’s humour.  
  
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. When you’re older. And have a higher clearance level. And I’m very, very drunk.”  
  
Gallant laughed. “Okay, now I’m intrigued.”  
  
This was… completely not what I’d been expecting. This couldn’t possibly be normal. It just… It seemed wrong, watching them banter so easily. So comfortably. (Like Gallant wasn’t even worried about saying the wrong thing and being disciplined for it.) Maybe they were just making a special effort to keep things light in some kind of effort to put me at my ease.  
  
Maybe they’d come up with the approach while I was waiting outside on the chair of doom.  
  
The worst thing was that it was kind of working, at least a little. Strange and alien though it seemed.  
  
“Then I guess you’ll have to stay intrigued,” Captain Cavendish told Gallant loftily, and then gave me a brief, rueful grin. “Sorry about that. Anyway, I’ll put you in one of those crash rooms for tonight. They’re a little basic, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll have somewhere to sleep.”  
  
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Sir,” I tried to reassure him. I wasn’t sure whether or not his apparent concern for my wellbeing was genuine, but it was better to at least act as though it was.  
  
“Okay, so we’ve confirmed that you’re a parahuman, you’ve signed the non-disclosure agreement, the relevant appointments have been scheduled… There’s just a couple more things to do and then you can go and settle in. Excuse me a moment.”  
  
He used the phone on his desk to call through to someone and ask them to set me up with access to all the areas I’d need, including a keycard for one of the crash rooms.  
  
“That shouldn’t take them long,” he said when he was done. “Oh, and I almost forgot. If you want something to eat or drink, we have a reasonably good staff canteen that’s a little closer to the crash rooms than the public cafeteria.” As he spoke, he retrieved a notepad and pen, and quickly scribbled something down, tearing off the page and handing it to me. “Show that to the cashier and they won’t charge you.” He jotted down a few more lines on the next page and gave me that, too. “That’s the location of the canteen, with directions on how to get there from the crash rooms.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, a little relieved that the problem of breakfast had been solved.  
  
“You’re very welcome,” he replied, smiling. “And now we’re done. As soon as the desk sergeant sends someone up with your access card, you can go and get settled in.” He looked over at Gallant. “Will you show Astrid to her quarters?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Gallant said. He smiled at me. “Assuming you’re not completely sick of my company just yet.”  
  
“Not just yet, no,” I said dryly.  
  
“Do you have any questions while we wait for your card?” Captain Cavendish asked me.  
  
I thought for a moment. “Are there any rules or restrictions I should be aware of, Sir?”  
  
He frowned. “I don’t believe so. There are restricted areas, of course, but you won’t have access to those, so that’s not really anything you need to worry about. Other than that, I can’t think of anything particularly relevant.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir.” I tried to make myself smile. I wasn’t entirely sure I managed to pull it off. “And for everything you’ve done.”  
  
“You’re very welcome,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “And, whether or not you join the Wards, I want to wish you all the best for the future.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said again.  
  
I hoped the person bringing my access card turned up soon. This was starting to feel pretty fucking awkward. Or maybe that was just me. Fortunately, Gallant seemed more than willing to pick up the conversational slack, asking the captain about some incident involving people I didn’t know. It certainly made the time pass a little quicker. In what seemed like not very long at all, I found myself looking over the room I’d been assigned.  
  
“It really is pretty basic,” Gallant said, the words sounding like an apology.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“I’ve slept in worse places.”  
  
Some of the safe houses we’d had to use over the years could only aspire to being classed as ‘basic’. And then there was the survival training Dad had insisted on. By this point, I was convinced I could sleep pretty much anywhere.  
  
“If you say so,” Gallant murmured, sounding a little disconcerted. He took a breath. “I was wondering,” he said. “Would you like to meet some of the other Wards? I know at least a couple of them are around at the moment, so I was thinking I could introduce you. I mean, I’d have to check with them first, but I’m pretty sure they’d be interested in meeting a potential new team mate.”  
  
I froze for a moment, caught off-guard, curiosity warring with the desire for a long shower and a good night’s sleep.  
  
Curiosity won.  
  
“I’d like that.”

 


	14. Agoraphobia 2.02

After Gallant left, I paced restlessly around the room, trying to tell myself that I wasn’t nervous about the prospect of meeting other Wards. Other **capes**. I didn’t believe myself. I didn’t even manage not to start when there was a knock on the door. Fuck, I was on edge right now. Which was obviously a great frame of mind to be meeting potential new team mates. Assuming, of course, that they agreed…  
  
“They agreed,” Gallant said without preamble when I opened the door. He smiled at me. “Shall we go down now?”  
  
“Sure,” I said, before I could change my mind and chicken out. Not that I actually would have done, of course. A stupid little bout of nerves was absolutely no fucking reason to back down. I might be feeling more than a little pathetic right now, but that didn’t mean I was going to start acting weak.  
  
Still, I may possibly have sent my power through the building again as we rode the elevator down to the Wards HQ. I didn’t do anything with it, but there was a certain reassurance in having that awareness hovering right there in my mind.  
  
World’s biggest fucking security blanket, I supposed.  
  
Christ, I really was pathetic. I needed to get my shit together because I was going to make a fucking awesome first impression like this.  
  
“You’ll be meeting Vista, Clockblocker and Kid Win,” Gallant said.  
  
Shaker, striker, tinker, my memory supplied. Not that Dad had ever been particularly worried about going up against the Wards, but he’d insisted we learn their abilities and tactics nonetheless.  
  
(‘Better to know it and not need it, than need it and be right up shit creek. Information is a weapon too. Never forget that.’)  
  
I nodded.  
  
“They’re good people,” he said, and I wondered if my apprehension had really been that obvious. He grimaced. “Although I warn you that Clockblocker can be…”  
  
“A wiseass?” I supplied, when he seemed to struggle to find the right word.  
  
He laughed. “I was going to say: a little trying. But, yeah. Wiseass would cover it. Feel free to tell him to knock it off if he starts getting on your nerves.”  
  
And wouldn’t **that** make for a great team dynamic? Because nothing says ‘I’ll be a great fit for this team’ than smacking down one of its members right off the bat.  
  
(Unless that was how they worked.)  
  
(And I wasn’t sure what to make of the queasy mixture of relief and disappointment that accompanied **that** thought, so I just ignored the fuck out of it.)  
  
All I said out loud, however, was: “Duly noted.”  
  
When the elevator disgorged us into a steel-walled corridor with a door at the far end, Gallant paused and turned to me.  
  
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave shortly,” he said, sounding apologetic. “There are some things I need to take care of. But I promise I’ll be leaving you in good hands.”  
  
It didn’t make sense for me to be nervous about being on my own with these people. After all, Gallant himself was practically a stranger. It was just… Having him there had been a little reassuring. Maybe too reassuring. So it was probably a good thing that he had to leave. I didn’t want to get too dependent on having someone around to run interference for me. I couldn’t afford to get sloppy.  
  
(The only people I could rely on to have my back were myself and my family. Outsiders were temporary allies at best. And they all ended up being left behind in the end.)  
  
“No need to sound so regretful,” I said. “You’ve already gone above and beyond.” I managed to muster up a small smile from somewhere. “Anyway, they’re just teenagers with superpowers. What could possibly go wrong?”  
  
He laughed.  
  
“Well, when you put it that way… I’m no longer responsible for your conduct. So feel free to get Cav in trouble.” I flinched inside at the thought of doing something to make the captain angry with me, and Gallant’s smile faded. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Bad joke.” He sighed. “I think Clockblocker might be contagious.”  
  
I seized upon that remark like a lifeline. Or, at least, a way out of this sudden awkwardness.  
  
“Ah. So **that’s** the reason he has a full face mask.”  
  
“It would explain a lot.” He sounded amused. “Anyway, shall we?”  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“Lay on, Macduff.”  
  
Because the apprehension might have come back in spades, but I would be damned if I would cry: ‘Hold! Enough!’  
  
I just hoped the quote didn’t prove to be too apposite.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

My first glimpse of the Wards HQ proper was a large, dome-shaped room. It had multiple exits, no windows (unsurprising, given we were underground), and moveable internal walls that could easily be repositioned to establish a killing ground. Plus, a reinforced structure that could probably withstand an earthquake.  
  
 **This** was more along the lines of what I’d been expecting.  
  
There were only two people waiting inside.  
  
“Astrid, meet Vista and Clockblocker,” Gallant said. The fact that they were both wearing their costumes  made the introduction just a little redundant, but I guessed it made sense that someone who called himself Gallant would be all about observing the proper social niceties. “Vista and Clockblocker, this is Astrid. No cape name as yet, before you ask.”  
  
I was kind of glad he’d brought that up, so I didn’t have to.  
  
“Hi,” I said, awkwardly.  
  
Should I say something else? Maybe that it was nice to meet them? That it was good to be here? That this had turned into a really fucking weird day?  
  
Um, maybe not that last one, true though it was.  
  
“Hello,” Vista said, pulling my out of my incipient spiral. “It’s good to meet you,” she continued, in a serious tone. Her expression, what I could see of it, was guarded.  
  
“You too,” I said quickly. But still awkwardly. Dammit! I really sucked at this whole ‘talking to people’ thing.  
  
“Greetings, new friend!” Clockblocker's somewhat effusive greeting took me rather by surprise. Perhaps he was just overcompensating for Vista’s subdued air. And for the fact that his face was completely covered. “Welcome to our secret lair!”  
  
“Not a lair, Clockblocker,” Gallant sighed. I bet he was rolling his eyes.  
  
“Not really a secret, either,” said Vista. I still found it difficult to get a read on her.  
  
“Oh, come on, you two,” Clockblocker admonished his team mates. “Where’s your sense of drama? This is a special occasion. It’s not every day we get a new recruit, after all.”  
  
Was he for real?  
  
“Potential recruit,” Gallant corrected him firmly.  
  
“Whatever,” Clockblocker said, waving a hand dismissively. “Still a big deal.”  
  
“Thanks, I think,” I muttered, not entirely certain whether I was being mocked. I resisted the urge to clench my hands into fists.  
  
Gallant glanced around the room pointedly. “Where’s Kid Win?”  
  
“Tinker-zone,” Clockblocker said, like that explained everything. From the way Gallant nodded, I guessed it did. I assumed that meant tinkers must get lost in their power sometimes, like thinkers apparently did. “Don’t worry: if he doesn’t surface on his own soon, we’ll go and roust him out.”  
  
Gallant sighed softly and turned to me. “I’m afraid I really do have to dash,” he said, still sounding apologetic about the fact that he actually had a life, and that he needed to get back to it.  
  
I opened my mouth to apologise again for dragging him hither and thither, but Clockblocker beat me to it.  
  
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to keep V- Um… Your lady and mistress waiting,” he fake-whispered, and then made whip-cracking noises, accompanied by the appropriate gestures. Or, possibly that should have been ‘inappropriate gestures.’  
  
Gallant gave no obvious reaction, but I found myself feeling vaguely irritated on his behalf.  
  
“I see your warning was spot on,” I told him dryly. “Although I think you may have understated the case a little.”  
  
He laughed. “Just follow my advice and you’ll be fine. And remember: I’m not responsible for your conduct any more.”  
  
“Duly noted.” I did my level best to make the words sound as ominous as I could, keeping my face expressionless as I glanced over in Clockblocker’s direction.  
  
Gallant’s lips twitched just a little. I thought he was amused. Clockblocker looked back and forth between us.  
  
“Conspiring with the new girl — sorry, potential new girl — already, Gallant? Would **would** G- I mean, She-who-must-be-obeyed say?”  
  
“She’d say that I should avoid getting dragged into your crazy,” Gallant retorted. “And on that note, I’m going to head out.” He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Astrid. You’re in good hands with Vista.”  
  
Huh. Apparently she wasn’t completely reserved, then, because even with her mask, the smile she gave Gallant right now seemed to light up her whole face.  
  
“Hey, I’m right here, dude,” Clockblocker said, sounding faintly aggrieved. Or amused. Or both? I… was pretty sure it was both.  
  
“I know,” Gallant said dryly. “And I stand by my statement.” Clockblocker started to say something else, but Gallant just spoke over him. “Anyway, I’ll see you both at tomorrow’s briefing.” He smiled at me again, his tone softening. “Maybe you too, Astrid.”  
  
“Maybe,” I said, pushing aside the apprehension that wanted to twist my stomach in knots when I thought about tomorrow. “I guess we’ll see how it goes.”  
  
“I’m sure it’ll all be fine,” he reassured me. I wondered how he could possibly sound so confident. Maybe he really had taken acting lessons. I shrugged noncommittally. “Either way,” he continued. “I hope everything works out for you.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, since I had to say something and that seemed like the best option. I wasn’t sure what made me add: “For everything.”  
  
For answering the phone. For dropping everything to come and help me. For staying with me all this time, even though he could have just made me someone else’s problem. But there was no way I was going to say all that in front of the others, even if I could find the words to articulate what I meant. I just hoped he could read between the lines.  
  
And that the other two couldn’t.  
  
(God, I hoped they wouldn’t think I was weak.)  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling like he meant it before addressing the three of us as a group. “Goodbye for now.”  
  
“Goodbye, Gallant,” Vista said softly.  
  
“See you,” Clockblocker said. It sounded like he was grinning under his mask. “And good luck with the missus.”  
  
Gallant very pointedly ignored him, waving to both Vista and me as he turned and headed away. I was a little surprised when he went deeper into the Wards HQ, rather than going back the way we came, although a moment’s thought yielded an obvious reason for that. He was probably going to change out of his armour and leave via one of the other exits. Maybe he even had a vehicle of his own in the parking garage.  
  
Belatedly, it occurred to me that I should probably have said goodbye, instead of merely silently watching him leave. Oh well. Too late now.  
  
I turned my attention to Clockblocker and Vista to find both of them studying me. Well, Vista clearly was and I assumed the same was true for Clockblocker. Certainly, the clock face adorning the otherwise blank facade of his mask was turned my way. I searched vainly for something to say.  
  
“Is that one of the PRT masks?” Vista asked, gesturing at my face.  
  
“Yeah.” I should probably make an effort to give more than one word answers. I had a tendency to get monosyllabic when I was on edge and, well, this was definitely one of those times. “Gallant gave it to me. I think he was embarrassed by the whole hoodie, sunglasses and scarf thing I had going on.”  
  
Okay, now I was rambling. I needed to find a happy medium between stony silence and verbal diarrhoea.  
  
Fuck. Words were really not my strong point.  
  
Vista actually smiled a little at my words, though, and not in a way that looked like she was mocking me. “I doubt he was embarrassed. He was probably just being considerate. He’s like that.”  
  
“Yeah, he’s a real gentleman,” Clockblocker broke in. “Helps little old ladies across the street and everything.” Vista shot him a distinctly unimpressed look, but he didn’t seem to notice. “So, did you only just… get your powers? Like, today?”  
  
I shook my head, idly wondering why he didn’t use the word ‘trigger.’  
  
“Just over a week ago.”  
  
There was a moment’s silence, and then: “That was you on the Boardwalk last Saturday?” Clockblocker asked. He sounded way too interested for my liking.  
  
“Yes.” I made my tone as flat as possible, fixing him with a steady look that wasn’t **quite** a glare. I hoped he’d take the hint.  
  
“Would you like a tour of the HQ?” Vista asked quickly, proving that she, at least, wasn’t totally oblivious to social cues.  
  
That made one of us, I guessed.  
  
(Actually, that wasn’t strictly true. There were some cues I was very good at picking up on. Mostly the ones related to incipient violence. Or figuring out if I’d managed to piss off Dad, which pretty much boiled down to the same thing. Anything else? Kind of hit and miss.)  
  
(A social butterfly I was not.)  
  
“Sure,” I said, a little surprised that she’d offer. “But isn’t it off-limits to civilians?”  
  
Clockblocker snorted. “Tell that to all the tourists who pay good money to see the Wards in their natural habitat. Or the very important people the PRT wants to impress by showing off their pet teen capes. Or the **esteemed** ladies and gentlemen of the press.”  
  
Vista elbowed him in the side. Which was impressive, considering that she’d been standing well out of range to do such a thing. I watched, fascinated, as the space between them abruptly shrank, and then widened again. I wondered what that would feel like to my power.  
  
“Hey!” Clockblocker said, rubbing his side exaggeratedly. “Now we see the violence inherent in the system.”  
  
I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. ‘Violence.’ Ha. She’d barely even touched him.  
  
“Nice trick,” I told Vista.  
  
“It comes in handy,” she said, sounding amused. “Anyway, you’re not a civilian.” I couldn’t help a certain bitter amusement at how right she was there. Much more so than she knew. “You’re a cape, and a potential Ward. So, would you like that tour?”  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
“We call this room the Hub,” she said. “It’s kind of a general gathering place, and we have weekly team briefings here every Monday afternoon.” She pointed towards a pretty fucking huge wall-mounted flat screen. There were chairs scattered somewhat haphazardly in front of it but, somewhat incongruously, many of them had been pushed aside to make way for a comfy-looking sofa.  
  
“The screen is also pretty sweet for gaming, or for watching movies on,” Clockblocker interjected, his grievance apparently forgotten. “Even if we do have to hide the sofa when the tours come by.” He made a disgusted sound. “Apparently it ‘sends the wrong message’ for us to be seen doing something other than sitting around looking very, very serious and being bored off our asses when we’re between patrols or crises.”  
  
I blinked at him, a little startled. Didn’t they have training to do? Enemies to research? Missions to prep? AARs to write? Of all the problems I might have imagined the Wards having, too much free time wasn’t really one of them.  
  
“Doesn’t your team leader have a problem with you…” Don’t say ‘slacking off.’ Don’t say ‘slacking off.’ **Don’t** say ‘slacking off.’ “Engaging in leisure activities while on duty?”  
  
“What, Aegis?” Clockblocker sounded amused. Vista gave me a strange look for some reason. “Not exactly. He used the briefing screen for entertainment purposes enough before that it would be beyond hypocritical of him to try to stop us doing it now he’s in charge. Anyway, we’re not on duty all the time, and there’s only so much time you can spend on training before you need to take a break.”  
  
It was like he’d suddenly started speaking a foreign language. I mean, sure, I understood all the words coming out of his mouth, but put together like that they made absolutely no fucking sense. God, I cringed to think of the hiding Dad would have given me if I’d ever tried telling him: ‘No, I don’t feel like training right now. I want to play computer games instead. Or watch a movie.’  
  
But now the silence was starting to get really fucking awkward.  
  
“I see,” I said, not really seeing at all.  
  
“ **Anyway** ,” Vista said, glaring at Clockblocker. “If I can finish what I was saying.”  
  
“Carry on, Squirt,” he said loftily, closely followed by: “Ow!” as Vista elbowed him in the side again. I assumed he was exaggerating for effect, since surely no one who fought capes on a semi-regular basis could surely be **that** much of a… a wimp.  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Vista growled.  
  
Apparently Gallant wasn’t the only person who could get through her reserve.  
  
I came very close to offering her advice on how to strike Clockblocker more effectively, but I refrained. I really wasn’t sure of the dynamics here, and sticking my oar in without better intel seemed like just asking for trouble. I knew that Lance and I would have taken a fucking dim view of an outsider attempting to interfere in one of our fights. Maybe even enough to work together to make them regret it. I really didn’t want to inadvertently end up making enemies of two of my future team mates.  
  
“Sorry,” Clockblocker said, and even I could tell that the apology was completely insincere. Vista glared again, and then very pointedly turned her back on him, focusing her attention on me.  
  
“As I was about to say before we were so rudely interrupted,” she said. “We can also keep an eye on what’s going on out in the city.” She indicated a collection of computers at one side of the room, most of their displays switching between views of what looked different parts of the city. I guessed they were hooked into the CCTV system. The one screen not displaying a camera feed seemed to show a countdown of some kind.  
  
“What’s that?” I asked curiously, pointing to the anomalous monitor.  
  
Vista sighed softly. “That’s the countdown to the next scheduled tour.”  
  
It looked like there was one planned for Wednesday. I guessed I would have to make myself scarce then, not having a so much as a cape name or a costume to call my own.  
  
Assuming that I did manage to join the Wards tomorrow as planned.  
  
(Assuming that my Dad didn’t manage to get to me after all.)  
  
“Do they happen often?” I wondered.  
  
“About once a week, on average,” she said, sounding a little glum. “More often during holidays. They’re a real pain in the ass.”  
  
“They’re not so bad,” Clockblocker said, and it almost sounded like he was trying to be reassuring. “They don’t last that long, and we don’t have to do all that much other than be there, sign a few autographs, answer a few questions and — most important of all — not do anything to embarrass the PRT.”  
  
“It’s alright for you,” Vista muttered. “You don’t get old people calling you fucking **adorable**.”  
  
I admit, hearing her swear caught me a little by surprise. Not that **I** hadn’t always sworn like a trooper, even at her age, but well… Vista kind of **was** adorable, especially when she was glowering at Clockblocker like she was trying to bore a hole through him with the power of her mind. She had dimples and everything. Resolving to never ever to say anything of the sort out loud, I very carefully controlled my expression. Clockblocker, on the other hand, laughed openly.  
  
He started to speak, but she held up a finger warningly.  
  
“Don’t say it,” she said. “I mean it.”  
  
He made a ‘who, me?’ gesture.  
  
“All I was **going** to say,” he said, sounding like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Was that I think you’ve covered all the highlights of the Hub, and that maybe we should move on.”  
  
“ **Fine** ,” Vista said tightly. Shooting another glare his way, she started leading me to one of the doors. “This is our press room…”  
  
It was something of a whistle-stop tour. I didn’t really ask many questions, being much more interested in observing the way the two Wards interacted. It was pretty clear that Vista was the more mature one of the pair, and she obviously took Gallant seriously when he said he was leaving me in her care. Actually, she pretty much seemed to take everything seriously. It was a complete contrast with Clockblocker. The only thing he seemed to take seriously was playing the clown.  
  
I wondered how much of what I was seeing was genuine, and how much was the front they put up for outsiders.  
  
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Clockblocker said to me, during a lull in the Vista and Clockblocker comedy hour. (Seriously, they could sell tickets. Vista made a great straight woman to his joker. By my reckoning, she was ahead on points, but then I admit I was kind of biased.)  
  
I shrugged, and then remembered why that was a really fucking bad idea as my back and shoulders protested the motion.  
  
“Not a lot to say right now,” I replied. I smirked a little. “Besides, you seem to be more than capable of filling the silence by yourself.”  
  
“You’re not wrong there,” Vista said, grinning conspiratorially at me.  
  
“Oh, **I** see,” Clockblocker said, tossing his head dramatically. “That’s how it’s going to be, is it? You and the new girl joining forces to pick on me?” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “Et tu Vista? Et tu? Do the years we’ve spent together mean nothing to you?”  
  
I watched his performance in something like amazement.  
  
“Is he always like this?” I asked Vista, sotto voce.  
  
“No,” she said, in a normal speaking voice. “Sometimes he’s worse.”  
  
She was joking.  
  
She had to be joking.  
  
Didn’t she?  
  
“And so it begins.” Clockblocker was the very picture of dejection, sighing heavily, before abruptly perking up and looking around as we stepped out of the elevator. (I wasn’t sure why we’d taken the elevator and not the stairs, considering we’d only gone down one floor, but I was hardly going to make a fuss about it. Even if I did think it was horrendously lazy.) “Hey!” he said brightly, and I was almost surprised I didn’t get whiplash from the sudden change in tone. “Let’s swing by the Win-den and drag Kid Win out of his fugue.”  
  
I frowned, puzzled. “Win-den?” I enquired.  
  
“The workshop,” Clockblocker explained. “Kid Win’s the only tinker we have right now, so it’s pretty much his domain. He spends a **lot** of time there. Come on, it’s this way.”  
  
The workshop was, to put it charitably, a complete fucking pig sty. There were bits and pieces of tools, equipment and what looked like half-finished devices scattered on every available surface. Even, in some cases, the floor. My hands itched to start tidying up the mess. Or to just start **touching** things so I could send my power through them.  
  
I wasn’t sure how I managed to resist either urge.  
  
Seriously, how could one person make so much mess?  
  
The person in question was muttering a little feverishly to himself as he worked on… something. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but I really wanted to take a closer look.  
  
(Was this normal curiosity, or was it something else? Was I just being paranoid?)  
  
“Hey, Kid!” Clockblocker’s shout made me start a little, my metal stirring before I made it settle again. Kid Win, however, continued working.  
  
He apparently had piss-poor situational awareness when he was lost in his power. I wondered why the PRT — or whoever was responsible for overseeing the Wards’ training — hadn’t knocked that out of him already. Or maybe he was just being lax because he was somewhere that was supposed to be safe and secure. It still seemed sloppy to me. I mean, they’d let me in and they didn’t really know me from Eve. It wasn’t really my place to say anything, though. Maybe it was something I could offer to help him with when we were actually team mates.  
  
In what seemed like a completely unwise move, Clockblocker strode forward and tapped Kid Win on the shoulder. Kid Win jumped a mile, spun around and almost tripped over his own feet.  
  
I bet he was really fucking relieved the team leader wasn’t around to see that shambolic performance. Assuming neither of the other two grassed him up, of course. My gut instinct said they didn’t seem like the type, but you never could tell.  
  
(After all, once upon a time, I would have said there was no way Lance would ever drop me in it with Dad. Showed you how much I knew.)  
  
“Smooth moves, Kid.” Clockblocker sounded amused, but he not only helped steady his team mate, but stopped the whatever-it-was he’d been working on from sliding off the bench and onto the floor. I was actually a little relieved to see that. I knew it wasn’t that much as far as having his team mate’s back went, but it was something, and it was the little, instinctive actions like that that often painted the truest picture of how the group functioned as a whole.  
  
“What the hell, Clock?” Kid Win said, sounding rattled. “Don’t **do** that!”  
  
“Sorry.” Unlike his earlier, utterly insincere apology to Vista for calling her ‘Squirt,’ this one actually seemed genuine. “But you seemed pretty far gone, and you did make me promise to disturb you when the new girl turned up.”  
  
It seemed that Clockblocker, at least, was assuming I’d be joining the team. That was the third time he’d referred to me as ‘the new girl.’ I refrained from telling him that I had a fucking name, thank you very much. Honestly, as far as nicknames went, ‘new girl’ was pretty fucking far from the worst one I’d ever had.  
  
“Is she here already? I didn’t think it had been-“ He broke off as his gaze settled on me. “Oh.” Even that one word was enough to hear the absolute mortification in his voice, and his cheeks were almost as red as the lenses of his mask.  
  
I kind of felt a little sorry for him.  
  
“Hi,” I said, giving him a small smile. “I’m Astrid. No cape name. Nice to meet you.”  
  
“Um, hi, Astrid-No-Cape-Name. I’m Kid Win. Nice to meet you too.” A little sheepishly, he added: “Although I kind of wish you hadn’t seen me flailing like that.”  
  
“I’ve seen worse flailing, don’t worry.” I told him dryly. I wasn’t entirely sure it was true, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Anyway, lord knew I hadn’t exactly covered myself in dignity on the few occasions when I’d lost myself in my own power-related trance. So, close enough for government work.  
  
“She does speak!” Clockblocker held his hand to his chest as if in shock. I rolled my eyes at his shenanigans. I had a feeling I might end up doing that a lot.  
  
“Did I miss something?” Kid Win asked. He looked at Clockblocker, but it was Vista who answered him.  
  
“Just Clockblocker being Clockblocker,” she said dismissively. “Anyway, we were showing Astrid around the HQ. Want to join us?”  
  
“Sure!” he said, and then looked around the workshop, sagging a little. “Although I should probably tidy this place up a little first.”  
  
A little? Try a whole fucking lot.  
  
“You can do that later,” Clockblocker said, waving a hand dismissively at the mess. “This is **much** more important. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been to hold off on asking the, like, million and one questions I’ve got for our new recruit?”  
  
“Excuse me?” I asked warily. I had thought it was strange that they hadn’t really asked me anything of import so far, but this was starting to sound an awful lot like an impending interrogation.  
  
Vista glared at Clockblocker, and then gave me a rueful smile.  
  
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” she said. “It’s just that, well, we’re kind of curious about you, that’s all.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re the first new person we’ve had in a while,” Clockblocker said enthusiastically. “But Gallant said not to overload you with questions.”  
  
Oh, he did, did he? I wondered what else he’d said to them.  
  
“Because, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, Clockblocker runs at the mouth,” Vista said.  
  
“Hey!” Clockblocker protested.  
  
“Anyway,” she continued, ignoring him. “We — well, **I** — figured that there was no point in asking you the same questions multiple times. So it would be better to wait until Kid Win surfaced.” She gave me an uncertain look. “This wasn’t meant to be an ambush, honestly.”  
  
It kind of felt like an ambush. But… I could understand them being curious about a new team mate. And I couldn’t honestly say that having a little time to collect myself and observe Vista and Clockblocker hadn’t helped me feel a little more at ease.  
  
Fine. I guessed I could cope with a few questions.  
  
It actually wasn’t too difficult to muster up a genuine smile, even if only a small one.  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
“Well,” Clockblocker began. “First of all-“  
  
“Why don’t we head up to the Hub?” Kid Win interrupted. He gave me a smile. “I mean, if we’re going to interrogate our guest, it seems only polite to do so in comfortable surroundings. And offer her refreshments.”  
  
“Kid Win’s right,” Vista said. “Seriously, where are our manners?”  
  
“Currently having hot make up sex with his girlfriend,” Clockblocker said, his tone slyly amused.  
  
I felt my cheeks heat up, and had the horrible feeling that my face must be crimson right now. I only hoped that the mask covered it. Vista, on the other hand, had gone pale. I half-expected her to jab Clockblocker with her elbow again, but she seemed frozen where she was. However, Kid Win smacked him lightly on the back of the head.  
  
“Not cool, man,” he said.  
  
“Sorry,” Clockblocker said, his tone the most serious I’d heard it. I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought he was apologising to Vista. I guessed it was kind of inappropriate to make that kind of joke around a twelve year old. Or was she thirteen? Either way, probably too young for that. She certainly seemed quite poleaxed by it. After staring silently at him for a moment or two, she abruptly turned on her heel and started striding back towards the elevator.  
  
“Let’s go,” she said, her tone brisk. “If you don’t mind putting the tour on hold for the moment?”  
  
“No, that’s fine,” I said, assuming that question was aimed at me. I hurried to catch up. For someone so short, she sure did cover ground quickly. Maybe she was using her power. For their part, Kid Win and Clockblocker dawdled a little, having a muttered conversation. I couldn’t make any of it out, but Kid Win didn’t seem happy with Clockblocker.  
  
I wondered if their words would have turned to violence if I hadn’t been here.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Vista said when I caught up with her. She was back to being quietly inscrutable again.  
  
“That’s okay,” I replied, not entirely sure what she was apologising for.  
  
We waited in silence for Kid Win and Clockblocker to catch up. The two boys seemed to have sorted out whatever the issue was by that point, chatting amiably about whatever it was Kid Win had been working on. Well, Kid Win was chatting and Clockblocker was mostly nodding in the right places. At least, I assumed they were the right places. I couldn’t quite follow the details of the monologue. Tinker stuff, I assumed. In any case, he snapped out of it when we returned to the Hub.  
  
“Did they show you the kitchen?” he asked me, apropos of pretty much nothing at all.  
  
“Uh, yes,” I said. “Briefly.” It had seemed reasonably well appointed.  
  
“Well, we tend to keep it pretty well stocked with snacks and soda and stuff,” he said.  
  
“Perfect for gaming marathons,” Clockblocker chimed in, apparently back to his usual gregarious self. “So, what’s your poison?”  
  
“Excuse me?” I asked, confused.  
  
“Your junk food of choice,” he explained. “I’m a Cheetos guy myself. Food of the gods, those are.”  
  
“He gets that orange stuff everywhere,” Vista muttered. “It’s a real pain in the ass.”  
  
“I mostly just snack on fruit,” I said. “And I don’t drink soda.”  
  
I’d worked fucking hard on my strength and fitness, and I wasn’t about to jeopardise that. Which wasn’t to say that I never ate unhealthily — I did love a greasy fry up on occasion — but I tried to avoid chips and such.  
  
Kid Win and Clockblocker stared at me in silence. I tried not to shuffle awkwardly in place, feeling self-conscious.  
  
“What… never?” Kid Win asked, at about the same time that Clockblocker said:  
  
“Not even Mountain Dew?”  
  
“Never,” I confirmed.  
  
They looked at each other, and back at me. Vista snorted loudly.  
  
“ **Boys** ,” she said, infusing the word with so much disdain, it was practically a palpable force. “Please, take a seat,” she said, waving her hand in the direction of the sofa and chairs. “I think we have some apples and oranges. Maybe some bananas. Would you like any of those?”  
  
“Um, an apple please,” I said, suddenly finding myself craving fresh fruit.  
  
“And would you like something to drink? We do have juice as well as soda, plus hot drinks if you’d prefer.”  
  
“Water will be fine, thanks.” A yawn suddenly emerged from out of nowhere. I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Maybe a coffee, if that’s okay?” I added sheepishly. God, I was tired all of a sudden. I guessed it had been a long day. Long fucking week, really. Eight days. Whatever.  
  
“Milk? Sugar?” she asked.  
  
I shook my head, stifling another yawn. “Just black is fine, thanks. Do you want a hand?”  
  
“No, don’t be silly,” she said, giving me a small smile. “You’re the guest here.” She gave Kid Win and Clockblocker a stern look. “You two can fend for yourselves, though.”  
  
On that note, she turned on her heel and stalked off towards the kitchen.  
  
“She’s quite the little martinet sometimes,” Clockblocker said, confidingly. “But, uh, don’t tell her I said that.”  
  
I gave him a thoughtful look.  
  
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said, after a moment or two. I considered and added: “Probably.”  
  
“I, on the other hand, make no promises,” Kid Win said, grinning.  
  
“Dude!” Clockblocker protested.  
  
“Well… I suppose I **could** be persuaded to keep my silence,” Kid Win mused.  
  
Clockblocker sighed dramatically. “Name your price, you foul blackmailer.”  
  
“I prefer extortionist,” Kid Win shot back. “And you can grab me a Dr Pepper and a box of grape and strawberry Nerds.” He pointed at Clockblocker. “ **Without** making any wisecracks.”  
  
“Would I?” Clockblocker asked in a wounded voice. It would probably be more convincing if he didn’t also sound like he was on the verge of bursting into laughter.  
  
“Yes. Yes, you would. Now hop to it.”  
  
“What did your last slave die of?” Clockblocker muttered, but he did slope off to the kitchen.  
  
I shook my head somewhat bemusedly. God, this was fucking **surreal**. My final exam, what happened with Lance, the conversation with Dad, running away from home and now… this. I was about to enjoy ‘snacks’ with some of the Wards in their fucking HQ.  
  
Completely fucking bizarre.  
  
Maybe I was dreaming.  
  
(God, I hoped not. Because if I was dreaming, then maybe I never actually ran. And if I never actually ran, then…)  
  
I shoved the thought aside and glanced over at Kid Win, who smiled at me.  
  
“We can be a rambunctious lot on occasion,” he said. “But you get used to it.”  
  
“I… see.”  
  
We looked at each other for an awkward moment or two.  
  
“Please take a seat,” he said. “The sofa’s pretty comfy.”  
  
It looked comfy. It also looked like it would be difficult to extract myself from in a hurry.  
  
“I’m fine with a chair,” I told him, carefully settling into one of them before he could try to change my mind.  
  
“If you’re sure,” he said, a little uncertainly. He seated himself on the sofa. Silence loomed over us again.  
  
“So, what are you working on at the moment?” I blurted out, then kicked myself as I realised that he might not want to talk about his tinkering projects with someone who was currently an outsider. “If that’s not too intrusive a question.”  
  
“No, not at all,” he assured me. “I’m working on a…”  
  
Optimistically, I got maybe one word in three of his subsequent monologue. I wondered if that was because it was tinker stuff, or because the week’s exertions were catching up with me.  
  
Make that: had caught up with me, I thought, as I stifled another yawn.  
  
“Careful, Kid, you’re sending the poor girl to sleep,” came Clockblocker’s voice, sounding amused.  
  
Kid Win jumped a little.  
  
“Um, sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to ramble on so much.”  
  
“You weren’t,” I tried to assure him, hoping he didn’t think I was rude. “It was interesting.” Well, I assumed it would have been if I’d understood it. “I’m just tired, that’s all. I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.”  
  
“That sounds like a story,” Clockblocker said, his tone encouraging. He handed Kid Win his snacks and drinks, settling onto the sofa next to him with a bottle of something that was so bright a green as to be positively luminescent, and a bag of the alleged ‘food of the gods.’  
  
“Not really,” I said flatly.  
  
“Maybe this will help with the tiredness,” Vista said. She was carefully carrying a tray with a glass of water, one of what looked like orange juice, a mug of black coffee, an apple and an orange.  
  
“Thanks,” I told her gratefully.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she said, giving me a small smile. She looked around, sighing when her gaze settled on the coffee table that was halfway across the room. I assumed it was usually closer.  
  
“I’ll get it,” I told her, suiting the action to the words. It wasn’t all that heavy. Certainly not too heavy to carry that short distance.  
  
(It didn’t hurt all that much.)  
  
“I was going to ask them,” she told me, nodding at Clockblocker and Kid Win as she set the tray down on the now much more conveniently located table.  
  
“It was no trouble,” I said.  
  
“You’re pretty strong, huh?” Clockblocker observed.  
  
“It wasn’t that heavy,” I demurred, but I was secretly pleased by the compliment. I sat down again and picked up my coffee, draining half of it in one go. That certainly hit the spot. “This is good coffee,” I told Vista.  
  
“We have a machine,” she said, but she sounded pleased. She sipped at her juice and started peeling her orange.  
  
Silence reigned for a short while as we all focused on our victuals, but then Clockblocker — whose costume, I was amused to note, now sported a light dusting of orange powder in places — turned to face me.  
  
“Right,” he said. “Now you’ve been properly fed and watered, the interrogation can begin!”  
  
(He didn’t mean it like that, I told myself. It was just a figure of speech.)  
  
(There was no reason at all to feel apprehensive.)  
  
“Don’t be an asshole, Clock,” Kid Win said, just as Vista protested:  
  
“It’s not an interrogation!”  
  
“Have at it, then,” I said, sighing. “What do you want to know?”  
  
“What’s your power?” Clockblocker said immediately.  
  
I raised my eyebrows. “Didn’t Gallant say?”  
  
“He didn’t say a whole lot, actually. I mean, I’m assuming some kind of shaker based on how you, uh, rearranged part of the Boardwalk, but some details would be nice.”  
  
It was a reasonable question, I supposed. If I was going to be joining them, it was only natural for them to want to know what I could do. But still I found myself hesitating.  
  
(’Give the enemy as little information about your capabilities as possible. The less they know, the less they’ll be able to counter your actions.’)  
  
“It’s okay if you’d rather not say until you join,” Kid Win said softly.  
  
“Come on,” Clockblocker wheedled. “If it helps to sweeten the deal: you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”  
  
I almost choked on my bite of apple.  
  
Both Vista and Kid Win smacked him for that, Vista wielding her trusty elbow and Kid Win clipping him around the ear. Not that either blow would have done much through his armoured costume, if he even felt them at all. Clockblocker seemed entirely unfazed, tilting his head slightly as he studied me.  
  
“Is that… Are you **blushing**?” he asked, sounding positively delighted.  
  
“No,” I lied flatly.  
  
What was I, twelve? Except no, because that would have made me the same age as Vista, and she only seemed disgusted with him, not embarrassed.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
“I think you’re blushing,” he repeated, gleefully. He turned to the others. “She’s a blusher,” he said again, like they hadn’t heard him the first couple of times.  
  
“Shut up, Clockblocker.” Vista sounded thoroughly unimpressed with her team mate.  
  
“Do you want me to answer your question or not?” I asked him, somewhat irritably. What an asshole.  
  
I had a feeling that was the first of many times that I would have that particular thought in regards to him.  
  
“The deal was show,” he reminded me. He sounded like he was smirking.  
  
 **Asshole**.  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“ **Fine**.” I set the remains of my apple down on the tray and stood up, shrugging carefully out of my jacket. It would be easier than pushing up my sleeves. “I’m a thinker/striker,” I said a little stiffly, making my metal flow between my hands. I formed some of it into a baton, a knife, a crude but recognisable rose. (That last one I’d practiced in secret. It had been useful for helping me work on my fine control, but I somehow didn’t think Dad would understand.)  
  
(I could hear Dad’s voice in my head, telling me I was being stupid by sharing this information with them, that he’d trained me better than this, but fuck it. I didn’t care.)  
  
“Cool,” said Clockblocker.  
  
“Yeah, cool,” said Kid Win. “Really cool.” He sounded thoughtful. “So, is it just metal, or…”  
  
“As far as I can tell, it’s anything non-living,” I said, sitting down again and wrapping my metal back around my arms.  
  
I glanced over at Vista, who hadn’t said anything. She was studying me thoughtfully. No, she was studying my arms. Shit. Was I going to have to field more questions about my bruises? Maybe I should have thought about that before taking off my jacket. Oh well. Too late to worry about that now, I supposed. She opened her mouth to speak, and I tensed in anticipation, but all she said was:  
  
“Neat power.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, and then immediately felt foolish. It wasn’t exactly something I could take credit for, after all. To cover my awkwardness, I looked over at Clockblocker. “So, I’ve shown you mine,” I said, trying in vain to keep the flush from my cheeks. I really hoped it didn’t look as obvious as it felt, but I would be damned if I would let a little thing like embarrassment put me off my stride. I had to show him he couldn’t fluster me that easily. (Even if it wasn’t entirely true. Or, in fact, at all true.) “Now it’s your turn.”  
  
Clockblocker laughed. “I like you,” he said cheerfully. “You’re fun.” I had a horrible feeling he meant ‘fun to poke at.’ He stood up, snagging a cushion from the sofa as he did so. “Behold!” he proclaimed. He held out the cushion and moved his hand away, leaving it fixed there in mid-air.  
  
I stood up to take a closer look, reaching out to touch it. And… nothing. I mean, I could feel it the pressure of it against my hand; unmoving, unyielding, way-too-solid. But as far as my power was concerned, it simply didn’t exist.  
  
“Huh,” I said. “Fascinating.” By which I meant: fucking **frustrating**.  
  
“So kind of you to say,” Clockblocker said, preening. “I mean, I’d prefer ‘charming,’ but ‘fascinating’ is certainly adequate.”  
  
“Not **you** ,” I muttered, knowing he was only trying to get a rise out of me and yet unable to help reacting. Dammit. “This is just… **weird**. I can’t sense it at all with my power.”  
  
And my power did not like that one bit. Or I didn’t. I tried harder, but to much the same effect.  
  
“Is that unusual?” Kid Win asked, sounding interested. “For you not to be able to sense something?”  
  
“I can sense anything that touches my skin,” I told him absently. “I can’t turn it off, and it takes effort to damp it down. But it’s like the cushion isn’t even there.”  
  
“Yeah, my power’s awesome like that,” Clockblocker said, sounding way too pleased with himself for my liking.  
  
I tried not to grit my teeth. This felt… wrong. I **should** be able to sense that goddamn cushion. It was right **there**. I could feel it against the palm of my hand. I was startled and a little disturbed to realise that, without even the most minimal of structural information from my power, the cushion didn’t even feel real. Is this what it would feel like if my power was ever nullified or cancelled? Like I was in a ghost world, filled with nothing but the phantoms of objects?  
  
Okay, maybe I was being just a little ridiculous.  
  
But this really was starting to irritate me now.  
  
“I can’t sense things he’s used his power on either,” Vista offered. “It’s really weird.”  
  
“I wonder how our powers would interact,” I mused. “You can manipulate space, I can manipulate matter. Seems like we should be able to work well together.” I made myself take my hand away from that **fucking** cushion, and gave her a small smile. “Want to try a little experiment?”  
  
She looked a little startled, but nodded. “Sure,” she said. “The coffee table?”  
  
“Something ductile would be better,” I mused. “How about the wall?” Stainless steel should be plenty ductile. I could have suggested we use my metal, but I found myself oddly reluctant to do so. Fortunately, Vista nodded at my suggestion. I crossed to the wall and lightly pressed my hand against it. Now **this** was more like it. I let my power whisper through the building, keeping my focus on my immediate surroundings. It was such a relief to be able to do that.  
  
“I’m going to stretch it, and then compress it,” Vista said. “Ready?”  
  
“Ready,” I confirmed. It was… weird. I could feel it when she did… whatever it was she did. The topography changed in ways that didn’t make sense, and I very carefully didn’t try too hard to map out the distortions other than to note their location, just in case. I really did not need another migraine right about now. But the fascinating thing was how the distortions affected my power. In the area of stretched space, it took a little longer to gather information, a little longer for the metal to respond to my commands. Not that I was making it do anything other than vibrate just the tiniest amount. I didn’t want to damage anything. When she compressed it, though, it had the opposite effect.  
  
Yes, this definitely had potential.  
  
“It doesn’t feel any different to me,” Vista mused.  
  
“It definitely does from this end,” I assured her. “I can sense when you’re bending space to your whim.” I didn’t tell her that she could apparently affect how easy it was to use my power on the building. It was information she didn’t need to know. “It’s odd, but not in a bad way. Just… different.” I kept quiet about the increased migraine potential as well.  
  
“Maybe it’s something we can study?” she said, giving me another unreadable expression. “Assuming that you join, that is.”  
  
“Pretty sure I’m going to join,” I told her. “I can’t really imagine changing my mind at this point.”  
  
“That’s good to hear,” Kid Win said. “Um, no pressure, of course.”  
  
I didn’t really know what to say to that, so I just smiled fairly awkwardly. To distract myself — and because it still irked me something chronic — I crossed the room to try my power on the goddamned cushion again.  
  
“Pretty sure that’s not going to work,” Clockblocker said, sounding amused.  
  
“Science is all about repetition,” I told him, maybe just a tad snippily.  
  
“And insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results,” he shot back.  
  
Asshole.  
  
“Don’t be an ass,” Vista chided him. He said something in response, but I was a little distracted making one last herculean effort to send my power into the cushion, to exactly the same effect as the previous time. Which is to say: none at all. Dammit. In a fit of pique, I tried to disintegrate the fucking thing.  
  
No one was more startled than me when it briefly lit up to my power a fraction of a second before turning to dust.  
  
“Fuck!” I said aloud. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. Shit. Sorry. I can… I can replace it.” Maybe. If it was a very cheap cushion. Or if I acquired some more money from somewhere.  
  
(I hoped I wasn’t going to be in too much trouble.)  
  
“It’s just a cushion,” Clockblocker told me, sounding positively laconic next to my increasing state of agitation. “No one’s going to care. No one’s probably going to even notice.” I really hoped he was right. He looked at the fine dust still sifting slowly downwards to the floor. “What did you do?”  
  
“Disintegrated it,” I said.  
  
“Well, duh,” he said. “But how?”  
  
“I ripped apart the bonds holding it together,” I said, too rattled to realise that I probably shouldn’t tell them that until after the words were out of my mouth. “But I didn’t think it would work. I couldn’t even sense the damn thing until it suddenly reappeared again.”  
  
“That part, at least, I can explain,” Clockblocker said. “My power has a random duration. Objects remain time-locked for anywhere between thirty seconds and ten minutes, approximately. I guess it just unfroze while you were busy trying to rip it apart with the power of your mind.” He shook his head. “And, by the way, the fact that you can even do that is both awesome and terrifying. Awesomely terrifying? Terrifyingly awesome?”  
  
“Definitely awesome,” Kid Win said. He leaned forward to scoop up some of the dust from the carpet, rubbing it between his fingers. “So, can you make bonds as well as ripping them apart?”  
  
“Yes,” I said.  
  
“So does that mean-“  
  
“Okay, enough with the powers stuff,” Clockblocker said impatiently. “There’ll be plenty of time for that once Astrid’s actually joined up. For the moment, I have a pretty goddamn urgent question that absolutely has to be answered.”  
  
I froze.  
  
Oh God. Had he figured out who I was? What did he know? Was I in trouble? What could he possibly want to know that was so urgent?  
  
“What is it?” I asked apprehensively.  
  
“What’s with the haircut?”  
  
I stared at him, completely unable to parse his meaning for a moment or two.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“I mean, is it a fashion statement? Did you have an accident with a hairdryer? Were you attacked by rogue wig-makers seeking a source of blonde hair? Enquiring minds want to know.”  
  
He didn’t know a fucking thing.  
  
I think it was the rush of relief that made me actually answer the damn question.  
  
“Someone grabbed me by it,” I said, snagging my cup from the tray and draining the remainder of my coffee.  
  
Silence fell like a stone, pressing down on us for a moment or two until:  
  
“They ripped it out?” Vista asked, her voice about an octave higher than her usual pitch, and quite a bit louder.  
  
“No,” I told her, aiming for a reassuring tone. “I cut it. So I could get away.”  
  
“Like… with a knife or something?” Kid Win’s tone was a combination of horror and fascination.  
  
“Something like that,” I said, not really wanting to explain my cutting wires.  
  
Clockblocker gave a low whistle. “You cut your own hair to get away from a bad guy?” he asked. “That’s badass.”  
  
I couldn’t help snorting at that. “Hardly,” I said. “I was just really fucking motivated. If I was really badass, I would have managed to avoid getting grabbed in the first place.”  
  
I very carefully didn’t touch on the whole ‘bad guy’ thing.  
  
“So, who were you fighting?” Kid Win asked. My mind went blank. He seemed to take my silence to mean that he should continue speaking. “E88? ABB? Merchants? Were you doing the independent hero thing? Is that why you’re so banged up?”  
  
That was…  
  
A hero?  
  
He thought I was a vigilante?  
  
For one long moment I was so fucking tempted to lie and say that was what had happened. To make myself sound strong, rather than weak. But then common sense kicked in. Gallant knew. Captain Cavendish knew. Ms Cortez knew. At least, they knew my cover story. What was the saying? Three people could keep a secret if two of them were dead? I couldn’t change my story now. It would inevitably come out, and then they’d never believe anything I said ever again. No. They had to believe I was telling the truth. More than that, I had to make them feel so goddamned awkward and uncomfortable about even **asking** about my background that they never raised the subject again. That they never suspected I might be keeping other secrets.  
  
Luckily, there was an easy way to do that. And all it would cost me was my pride.  
  
“I wasn’t doing the independent hero thing,” I said quietly, looking away from them as if I was ashamed.  
  
It wasn’t exactly a stretch.  
  
“What?” Kid Win sounded startled. “Then what happened to you?”  
  
It didn’t require any great feat of acting on my part to make my tone clipped and brusque, my posture tense and stiff.  
  
“My father,” I said quietly.  
  
The tension in the room was suddenly so thick I was almost surprised I couldn’t feel it with my power.  
  
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. I’m… I’m really sorry,” Kid Win stammered.  
  
“It’s fine.” I thought it was probably an act of mercy to cut off Kid Win’s increasingly panicked babbling. “Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Are you okay?” Vista asked, a little hesitantly. “Do you need to go to the infirmary or anything?”  
  
What **was** it with these people trying to get me to see a doctor? You’d think they never saw a cut or bruise before.  
  
“No, I’m fine,” I said. I attempted a smile in her direction, but judging by the uneasy look she gave me, I didn’t quite manage it. “It looks worse than it is.”  
  
“If you say so,” she said.  
  
“Well, on the bright side,” Clockblocker said, and his tone was perhaps a more sober than it had been so far this evening, but there was still an edge of something like humour. “At least you got superpowers out of the deal.”  
  
He thought my trigger event involved Dad hitting me?  
  
Seriously?  
  
He really thought I was that fucking pathetic?  
  
I saw red for a moment, a hairsbreadth away from just hauling off and trying to beat seven shades of shit out of the fucker, but then reason reasserted itself.  
  
This was perfect.  
  
If they thought I’d triggered from being smacked around a little, then they wouldn’t be suspecting it was because my nazi super villain father tried to make me kill someone.  
  
I’d succeeded better than I could have hoped.  
  
Yay me.  
  
“A bargain at twice the price,” I muttered.  
  
Weirdly, now that the initial flare of incoherent rage had guttered out, I actually found myself appreciating Clockblocker’s remark. I mean, sure, it was kind of a dick move but, honestly, I’d take a little dickishness over fucking **pity** any day of the week.  
  
Anyway, I guessed it should probably give them a little space right now. If I stuck around here much longer, there was a chance that one or more of them might be able to overcome their discomfort enough to start asking questions. That was the absolute last thing I wanted. Anyway, I really was kind of wiped, and I wanted to make sure I was at my best for tomorrow. So, it was probably way past time I got going.  
  
(It wasn’t a retreat, it was a tactical withdrawal.)  
  
(I wasn’t backing down.)  
  
(I wasn’t running away.)  
  
I yawned loudly, only just managing to put my hand in front of my mouth in time. I didn’t even have to fake it.  
  
“Sorry, I think I’m fading fast,” I said trying to sound apologetic. “It really has been a very long day. I think I need to go hit the shower and have an early night.”  
  
“You’re staying in the building?” Vista asked.  
  
I nodded. “At least for tonight. Captain Cavendish assigned me one of the PRT crash rooms.”  
  
“How is Cav?” Clockblocker asked and, once again, I appreciated that he kept his tone mercifully free of anything that even sounded like pity. “I haven’t spoken to him in a little while.”  
  
“Okay as far as I could tell,” I said. “I didn’t really speak with him at great length.” I got to my feet and put my jacket back on. “It was nice to meet you all. Thanks for the tour, and the refreshments.”  
  
“You too,” Kid Win said, still sounding distinctly uncertain.  
  
“You’re welcome,” said Vista softly. “Do you need one of us to escort you to your room?”  
  
I shook my head. “No, that’s okay. I can remember the way.”  
  
Jesus, could this get any more awkward? No, best not to even ask the question. The one thing I knew for certain (aside from the fact that everybody breaks) was the fact that, no matter how bad things were, they could always get worse.  
  
I needed to get the fuck out of here.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Later, after I’d showered and gotten ready for bed, I thought about something that really should have occurred to me sooner.  
  
My phone.  
  
I’d turned it off, but I hadn’t taken the battery out.  
  
Sloppy. Very sloppy.  
  
(‘I’ve trained you better than that, **girl**.’)  
  
I grabbed it from my bag, but instead of removing the battery, I found myself turning it on and listening to my messages.  
  
Shit.  
  
A fuckload of messages from Dad, all saying pretty much the same thing.  
  
And one from Lance.  
  
“You’ve really done it this time, you stupid bitch,” Lance’s voice said. But he didn’t sound as smug as I would’ve expected. He just sounded tired. “The old man’s just about spitting nails, he’s so mad. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll come back home.” There was a pause then, long enough that I thought that was the end of the message, that he’d just not hung up the phone properly. But just as I was about to stop the playback, he continued. “I can’t believe you fucking did this again. He found you last time, and he’s going to find you this time. The longer you drag this out, the worse it’s going to be for you in the end. Don’t be an idiot, Triss. Just come home.”  
  
Home.  
  
I didn’t have one of those any more.  
  
I wan’t sure whether I ever would again.


	15. Agoraphobia 2.03

As usual, I woke a few minutes before oh six hundred hours, reaching out automatically to turn off the alarm I no longer needed. Except my questing hand found nothing but air where my bedside clock was supposed to be. There was a brief moment of panicked disorientation, but then I woke up more fully and remembered why I wasn’t in my own bed, in my own room, in my own house.  
  
Why I currently didn’t have any of those things.  
  
I pressed my face deeper into the pillow, muffling a sigh so deep it was almost a groan.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Well, on the plus side, at least I’d managed a not too awful night’s sleep. I’d been so exhausted that I’d gone out like a light practically as soon as my head hit the pillow.  
  
(And if I’d maybe woken up a couple of times in the night with my heart racing and my whole body tensing in anticipation of a beating or, worse, of a hand wrapping around my throat, then the less said about that the better.)  
  
There was, I supposed, something to be said for running yourself so far into the ground that you mostly slept like a log.  
  
But I was awake now, which meant it was time to get up and face the day. I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and got to my feet.  
  
Okay. That wasn’t too bad.  
  
The crash room didn’t actually have a bedside table, probably because there wasn’t exactly space for one. Instead, there was a small, wall-mounted shelf for odds and ends, and that currently held a cheap-looking digital clock. I didn’t even need to cross the room to reach over and turn off the alarm.  
  
I ran through a series of stretches and squats, taking my time and making sure to thoroughly work out the kinks. Afterwards, I checked over my injuries. All in all, I didn’t think I was doing too badly. I wouldn’t be sleeping on my back for a few more days, and I would definitely need to be careful with my right wrist for a while, but there was nothing to be overly concerned about.  
  
I’d had worse, after all.  
  
As I got dressed and retrieved my toiletries from my bag, I wondered if this place had a gym I would be able to use. I somehow doubted I’d be allowed to go out for a run (and I absolutely didn’t feel a shiver of unease at the thought of being outside on my own when Dad could be out there, looking for me), and I really didn’t want to skip my morning work out. Who could I even ask? The guards manning the security desk, I guessed. I couldn’t think of a better option. I wished I’d thought to ask Captain Cavendish about it last night, but what with one thing and another it hadn’t occurred to me. I certainly didn’t want to bother him — or whoever the current duty officer was — about it now.  
  
The security guards it was, then.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Naturally, the doubts set in as I double-checked that my mask was on properly and made my way towards the security station. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. But I could hardly back out now as I was directly in their line of sight. Turning around and striding away without saying anything would just look suspicious, and I really didn’t want to give them any excuse to (interrogate) question me. The less chance anyone from the PRT had to find any inconsistencies in my story, the better.  
  
Both guards looked up at my approach. Was I imagining the hard, assessing look in their eyes? Was it just curiosity, or was it something else? (Had the PRT found out who I really was sometime during the night? Were just lulling me into a false sense of security so they could use me to get to Dad?) They were fit, and looked like they knew how to handle themselves. I wasn’t exactly surprised at that. One of them was… was black.  
  
I came to attention in front of the desk.  
  
“Good morning,” I said, addressing both of them, trying to project a confidence I didn’t feel. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wasn’t sure who else to approach. I’m currently in the process of joining the Wards, and I wondered if there was a gym here I would be able to use while I wait for my appointment.”  
  
Was that enough information? Too much information? Did I sound as agitated as I was starting to feel? Should I have smiled? Should I have added a ’Sir’ or two to that?  
  
(God, I really hated being in limbo like this. I mean, I doubted that PRT security guards would actually be in the Wards’ chain of command, but I just didn’t know for certain. And I **hated** not knowing. It made me feel really fucking antsy. I didn’t even know enough about their internal hierarchy to be able to make a passable guess. The only assumption I could reasonably make was that I wasn’t going to be anywhere near the top of the chain.)  
  
Was this just a big, fat mistake?  
  
“Let me just check your access,” one of the guards (the black one) said. (I tried not to be surprised that he seemed to be the one in charge. I hated the fact that I had to make an effort not to be surprised.) “Can I have your card, please?” He held out his hand. (At least I managed not to flinch at the movement, unlike with Captain Cavendish yesterday. It was amazing how much a decent night’s sleep could reduce my general level of twitchiness.) I unclipped my card and handed it over for him to scan. After glancing over whatever came up on the screen, he looked up again. “I’m afraid you haven’t been authorised to use the PRT staff gym,” he told me, sounding almost apologetic. Or at least doing a good impression of it. He handed my card back, and I felt a tension I hadn’t even been aware of ease slightly when I once again had in my possession concrete proof that I was authorised to be here. (Not that my access couldn’t be revoked as easily as pressing a few keys, but it still made me feel better to have it back.) “But there is a gym in the Wards HQ. You should be able to use that once your paperwork has been processed.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said quietly, a little disappointed, but not entirely surprised.  
  
(I figured it was best to err on the side of caution regarding modes of address. Less chance of offending anyone, that way.)  
  
“You’re very keen,” the other guard said, looking and sounding amused. “I thought teenagers were supposed to sleep in late given half a chance, not hit the gym at half past six in the morning.”  
  
Was he mocking me? I bristled a little at the thought, but tried to keep it from my face and demeanour.  
  
“It’s part of my routine, Sir,” I told him, perhaps a little stiffly.  
  
“Polite, too,” he said, actually laughing a little now. “You sure you’re really a teenager?”  
  
Yeah, he was definitely mocking me. Asshole.  
  
“Last I checked, Sir,” I murmured, and maybe there was more of an edge to my voice than was really wise. I should definitely leave now, before I said or did something I’d end up regretting. (I wanted to at least give my current injuries a chance to heal before risking being disciplined again.) I turned back to the first guard. The non-asshole one. “Thank you for your help, Sir.”  
  
“I’m not sure that I was actually helpful at all,” he said dryly, surprising me a little. “But you’re very welcome.”  
  
I nodded and started to turn away, hesitating a moment before saying: “Goodbye, Sir.”  
  
“Goodbye,” he said, and gave me a surprisingly warm smile. “And good luck with your appointment.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said awkwardly, trying to ignore the way the other guard was blatantly laughing at me. Goat-fucking bastard son of a **whore**. What the flying fuck was his problem?  
  
I strode away, resisting the urge to open up a hole underneath his chair and drop him through the floor. Petty, yes, but it would have been **so** fucking satisfying. So fucking stupid, though, and that was why I didn’t do it.  
  
Plus the fact that dropping someone through a floor just for a laughing at me seemed like a teensy little bit of an overreaction. ‘Control,’ I told myself. (My wrist twinged randomly as I remembered Dad’s little demonstration back at the cabin.) If my temper, my drive to lash out in anger, really was stronger now — and, honestly, the jury was still out on that — then it was more important than ever that I take care not to let it push me into actions I wouldn’t otherwise choose.  
  
Loss of control was a weakness, I reminded myself. Loss of control with my power even more so. I wasn’t going to do that. **I** controlled my actions; not my temper and not my power.  
  
I took a few deep breaths, trying to push the irritation aside. It didn’t help all that much. What helped more was letting myself focus on my power, feeling the building around me.  
  
Wait.  
  
How was I sensing the building? I wasn’t even touching it. Except… No. I was. Apparently I’d split the soles of my trainers and socks a little, letting my skin touch the floor as I walked.  
  
Why the fuck had I done that? **When** the fuck had I done that? I genuinely didn’t remember doing it. Just like when I’d sealed the beer bottle when Dad had grabbed my hair yesterday. (Had it really only been yesterday? It felt like such a lot had happened.) It was just a little thing, I guessed, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing. Because little things could add up to big things, and the last thing I wanted was for my power to start acting on my subconscious whims.  
  
Despite my best efforts, my father’s voice echoed in my head.  
  
‘Killing should be a deliberate action. A choice. It should **not** be the result of mere carelessness.’  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I wasn’t going to kill. And I most definitely wasn’t going to kill by accident; lashing out with my power without conscious intention. Oh, the asshole security guard wasn’t in any real danger, but it was the future I was worried about. I did have a temper, no matter how much I tried to rein it in outside of acceptable targets. (Like Lance, and like any motherfuckers who tried to start shit with me and didn’t back off.) And it wasn’t like I hadn’t hurt people before.  
  
(I tried to focus on the hot surge of shame that memories brought with them; not the rush of the adrenaline high. Not the razor-edged clarity I only felt when I sank so deep into the need to make someone **hurt** that there was no room for thought, just action. When the only thing that mattered was the impact of flesh on flesh.)  
  
(Not the way that fighting, that violence, made me feel really and truly **alive** in a way that nothing else on this earth did.)  
  
(I wasn’t **like** them; I wasn’t.)  
  
(I **wasn’t**.)  
  
(I would be better than that.)  
  
(I had to be.)  
  
(Even if I had to fight myself every goddamn step of the way.)  
  
I would just have to work harder on making sure that my power only did what I truly wanted it to do.  
  
(And that what I wanted wasn’t… wasn’t what they would want.)  
  
(What **he** would want.)  
  
(I was going to be **better**.)  
  
(I was.)  
  
In the meantime, I really hoped I could fix the damage to my trainers. It wasn’t like I could afford to just buy another pair right now. Fortunately, it actually turned out to be relatively easy. The rubber _(polyisoprene)_ of the soles practically seemed to want to flow back together. I thought I’d even managed to give the somewhat worn treads back a little of their former definition. (That was actually pretty cool. I’d thought about using my power to fix things, but I hadn’t really considered using it to compensate for normal wear and tear. I made a mental note to practice doing that.) The material of the insole and sock, although not nearly so manipulable, still proved easy enough to bond back together. I suspected the join didn’t look all that neat, but whatever. I could work on that. Anyway, it wasn’t like anyone was going to see it. Or, likely, care if they did.  
  
And I’d managed to make the repairs while continuing to make my way towards the stairs. I didn’t think I’d even so much as broken my stride. Plus, I maintained my situational awareness just fine. That was, I thought with a not inconsiderable amount of satisfaction, a marked improvement over eight, no, nine days ago.  
  
Anyway. Moving on…  
  
Putting aside concerns about my power seemingly acting without my conscious control, what was I going to do about my morning workout? Skipping it was definitely not an option. I couldn’t hit the gym, and I couldn’t go out for a run. Fortunately, there were other options.  
  
Jogging up the stairs would do for a start.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Okay, I thought, as I turned the shower temperature down as low as I could stand it, hoping the cold would help to numb the bruises I’d somehow managed to aggravate into throbbing as if I’d only just gotten them. Maybe I’d pushed myself just a little bit harder than was entirely wise. I hadn’t been meaning to, but I just couldn’t stop fretting about things that were completely out of my control (such as what Dad was doing to try to track me down), and so I kept driving myself harder and harder in an attempt to drown out the endless nagging fears.  
  
(I was so goddamn tired of being afraid.)  
  
Good **job** , me! Dealing with the distraction of worry by simply replacing it with the distraction of pain. What a truly fucking excellent idea. Because nothing bad could possibly come from **that**.  
  
Idiot.  
  
Reducing my ability to fight wasn’t going to make any goddamn thing better. I really couldn’t afford to cripple myself. (Dad would manage that just fine if he got his hands on me again.) I was just lucky I hadn’t managed to actually damage myself further. Sure, I was a little sore, but that wasn’t anything new. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.  
  
Shit, I was less worried about that than about the day’s scheduled meetings.  
  
Speaking of which, I needed to get a wriggle on if I was going to have time to grab breakfast and get back to my room by oh eight thirty. Captain Cavendish had said someone would contact me after nine, but better safe than sorry. Given that they didn’t have a contact number for me (and, in any event, my phone was currently missing its battery), the only way they had of getting hold of me was physically coming to find me. I guessed they could probably track my access card, but it was probably simpler to just wait in the one place they could be reasonably sure I would return to.  
  
My stomach rumbled in anticipation of breakfast. I hoped the food here was decent. At the moment, though, I thought I would happily settle for edible.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I was so very fucking tempted by the bacon I could smell practically as soon as I walked into the canteen. What I got, however, was granola and fruit, with a couple of slices of lightly buttered toast. Plus a glass of orange juice and a mug of black coffee. I had an anxious moment as I handed Captain Cavendish’s note to the cashier, but she accepted it without so much as batting an eyelid. Maybe it just wasn’t all that unusual an occurrence here.  
  
“Hey, kid,” she said, as I was gathering up my tray.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am?” I replied, trying not to sound as worried as I felt.  
  
She smiled as she held the captain’s note out towards me. “You might want to hang onto that for lunchtime. We do a mean raspberry crumble for dessert then, if I do say so myself.”  
  
“Oh, um, thanks, Ma’am.” I folded the note carefully and put it back in my messenger bag. I’d hoped it would cover lunch as well, but I hadn’t wanted to presume. I mean, I had **some** money, just not very much.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she said, smiling at me. I smiled a little uncertainly back, and went to find a seat.  
  
The canteen wasn’t packed, but nor was it empty, and I felt horribly self-conscious in my mask as I selected a table near the exit. It seemed like everyone was staring at me, but I hoped that was just my unease talking. Capes couldn’t be **that** unusual a sight here, and teen capes even less so. They probably weren’t staring at me. They almost certainly had their own shit to deal with.  
  
I was just being paranoid, that’s all.  
  
(‘It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.’)  
  
As I ate breakfast (and kept an eye out for anyone who seemed to be paying too much attention to me), I read through the first draft of my English literature assignment, pencilling in a few changes here and there. Not that I had any idea when I’d actually be going back to school, or even if I’d be going back to Winslow at all. When I joined the Wards, would I be expected to transfer to Arcadia? I… had absolutely zero problems with that. Winslow was a fucking shithole. (And Lance was there. Although, depending on how things went today, I had a feeling that he wouldn’t be for much longer.) I supposed I could have left the assignment. But it felt weird not doing schoolwork on a school day, and it wasn’t like there was a whole lot else I could usefully be doing with my time. Maybe practice with my powers some more, but I was hardly going to do that here.  
  
I was done with my breakfast before I was done with the assignment, but I still had a little time, so I quickly finished the first pass at editing. I’d probably want to give another going over later, but I was reasonably pleased with it as a second draft.  
  
Anyway, chances of me actually having to hand it in were probably fairly low.  
  
As I cleared up my things and looked around for where I was supposed to take my tray, I reflected that fucking **Richards** was not one of the teachers I would miss. He didn’t have the first clue how to maintain discipline, and spent more time trying to push his crappy fanboyism than actually, I don’t know, teaching us something useful. Plus, his syllabus was shallow, his so-called ‘critical analysis’ little more than a tired regurgitation of unquestioned axioms, and his conclusions utterly, desperately puerile. If I’d learned anything at all in his class, it was despite his teaching, not because of it.  
  
And I wasn’t at all bitter that he’d given me a fucking B on my last assignment, thus earning me another trip to the basement.  
  
Okay, maybe I was a little bitter.  
  
It wasn’t like I felt I was entitled to good grades, or anything like that. And if it had been any teacher other than that fucking **dick** , I’d probably have taken my lumps with something approaching good grace. But I didn’t respect him at all — not as a teacher and not as a person — and that made it a goddamn bitter pill to swallow. Especially when I’d worked my ass off on that fucking assignment, and I had a sneaking suspicion that the only reason I’d gotten a B and not an A was because I failed to satisfactorily fellate his favourite author. Apparently he didn’t appreciate me pointing out that Atlas Shrugged had flat characterisation and dubious plotting, not to mention all the subtlety of a bag of hammers. The fact that I could back my analysis up didn’t help either.  
  
Fucker.  
  
Honestly, I was more pissed off about the B itself than the fact that Dad had punished me for it. And I guess it had been my own fault that the trip to the basement had turned into a rather more extended sojourn than perhaps Dad was initially intending. I knew I shouldn’t have tried arguing with him, but I was just so mad about why I was there that I spoke without thinking.  
  
He’d thought I was trying to make excuses.  
  
But there were no excuses for failure, and failure was always punished.  
  
(I wondered how failure was punished in the Wards.)  
  
Fucking **Hand-Job**.  
  
Okay, that may have been somewhat immature of me, but I couldn’t help smirking a little at the nickname. Lance had actually come up with that one. (Richards to dick to hand-job. A bit of a stretch, but whatever. It was petty enough to be amusing.) I’d tried working out my frustrations by picking a fight with him which, in hindsight, hadn’t been my best move ever. I should have at least waited a day or so until I’d healed a little. It hadn’t gone well for me at all, but when Lance had finished beating the shit out of me, he’d asked me what I was so pissed off about. I’d still been in pretty high fucking dudgeon, so I’d explained — that is to say, ranted — at some length about ‘fucking Richards’ and his stupid fucking class and his even more stupid fucking assignment and that goddamn B.  
  
Turned out that Lance and I actually had something in common: he didn’t much care for the bastard either.  
  
A day or so after that, mysteriously, the headlights of Hand-Job’s car had ended up smashed to smithereens. I’d asked Lance if it had been him, and he’d just smirked and said: ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.’  
  
I took that as confirmation, although I wasn’t entirely sure why he’d done it. I didn’t think he’d particularly cared about Dad punishing me — would probably have been pleased about it, if anything — but maybe he just wanted an excuse to do something to Richards. I certainly wasn’t complaining.  
  
Anyway, if I was lucky, I’d never have to see the fucker again. Which might well mean that I’d just wasted my time working on the assignment, but never mind.  
  
I returned to my temporary room to await further instructions.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

While I waited for someone to come and tell me when and where my meetings would be, I split my time between schoolwork and planning out experiments to conduct with my power. I repurposed one of my notebooks as a lab book, jotting down ideas for things to test.  
  
It had been interesting using my power in conjunction with Vista’s, I mused. I definitely hoped that she’d be willing to try it again when I joined the Wards.  
  
Because, whatever Gallant may have been expecting, I hadn’t changed my mind about that overnight. I definitely still wanted to sign up. If anything, I was even more determined now. It was… I wanted a purpose. I thought maybe I needed a purpose. And I hoped I’d find it here.  
  
At the very least, like I’d thought yesterday: at least they weren’t nazis. And, according to Gallant, they wouldn’t expect me to kill. Right now, that was enough.  
  
How fucking sad was it that that was the bar they had to clear to be better than Dad’s gang?  
  
Pretty fucking low bar.  
  
I just hoped the Wards really would let me join without Dad’s permission, because that certainly wasn’t going to be forthcoming any time, well, ever. I just… God, I hoped he’d let me go. I didn’t think he would, but I hoped and prayed harder than I’d hoped and prayed for anything in my whole life.  
  
(Except maybe when I’d hoped and prayed fervently, desperately, **passionately** , that I wouldn’t trigger; that I would never trigger, no matter how much Dad tried to make it happen. That I would never be his little cape soldier. That he’d give up on the mission and let us just be a family.)  
  
(Yeah. Look how well that one had worked out.)  
  
 **Please**.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Oh nine hundred hours came and went.  
  
I didn’t panic. I was just… mildly concerned. But it was probably just that things like this took a little time to arrange. I doubted that they’d just forgotten about me. And I wasn’t really worried that they’d figured out who I was; that they were even now planning to take me into custody and…  
  
No. I was being ridiculous. There was absolutely no point whatsoever in working myself into a tizzy when there was nothing I could do about it until and unless the worst came to pass.  
  
I checked my appearance for the umpteenth time, making sure I was as neat and well-turned out as I could manage within the limits of my available wardrobe. And my raggedy-ass hair that wouldn’t quite fit properly into a ponytail any more and kind of fluffed out around my head like a dandelion gone to seed. No wonder Clockblocker had asked me about it. Maybe I should have made an attempt to trim it, or neaten it up or, hell, cut it all off. It wasn’t like Dad could stop me now.  
  
(I remembered him twisting his hand in it and pulling; telling me that I’d broken another rule, and had to suppress a shudder.)  
  
But it was probably too late to worry about my hair.  
  
I tried to immerse myself in my schoolwork.  
  
Oh nine fifteen.  
  
I **could** be patient. I could. I was just having trouble finding my patience right about now.  
  
Okay: things to test with my power. If a footpath counted as an object, what about a road? It should be relatively easy to check. Assuming they ever let me out of here.  
  
Wait: where was my mask?  
  
I glanced around in a panic, only to see it right there on the bed next to me where I’d very carefully laid it out after taking it off.  
  
Maybe I should just put in on again now. That way, I wouldn’t have to fumble with it when someone knocked at the door. Assuming someone did knock at the door. Anytime now would be good…  
  
I put on the mask.  
  
Oh nine thirty.  
  
Where the fuck were they? Should I go and find someone to ask? But who? And what if someone came by while I was out?  
  
I  really wished I wasn’t stuck here waiting. I wished… I wished…  
  
Oh nine thirty-three.  
  
There was a knock at the door.  
  
Thank fuck!  
  
I didn’t leap to my feet in a rush and scramble madly for the door. Instead, I set my notebook down on the bed, got up calmly and walked sedately over to answer the door. Waiting on the other side was a petite brunette woman in her… late thirties? Early forties? She was wearing a smart skirt suit and heels so high as to be really fucking precarious.  
  
She looked up at me — even with the heels, I still pretty much towered over her — and smiled.  
  
“Good morning,” she said. “My name is Beth Grant. I’m the Youth Guard liaison for the Brockton Bay Wards. You must be Astrid.”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I confirmed, even though it wasn’t quite a question. “Would you like to come in?”  
  
“I was thinking we could go to my office, if that’s alright,” she said. Her smile turned a little wry. “It may not be all that much bigger than this, but at least there are chairs.”  
  
Something sadly missing from this room.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, hesitating briefly before asking: “Should I bring my things with me?” I wasn’t sure how much longer I would have the use of the room for, and I really didn’t want to lose what were now my only worldly possessions.  
  
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ve been assured that you will have the room for the rest of the day, at least, and there seems little point in lugging around a heavy bag when you don’t have to.”  
  
I swallowed back my instinctive protest about my bag not being that heavy, merely nodding and stepping out into the hallway, closing the door behind me.  
  
“Then I’m ready to go, Ma’am,” I told her.  
  
“It’s a little bit of a trek, I’m afraid,” she said a little apologetically. “But it shouldn’t take us too long to get there.”  
  
Certainly not at the pace she set, I couldn’t help thinking, a little impressed at how quickly and easily she could move in her ridiculously high heels. She wasn’t kidding about it being a trek, though. By my reckoning, we were five floors up and on the opposite side of the building from the crash rooms before she halted in front of a fairly nondescript door and said:  
  
“Here we are.”  
  
Ms Grant unlocked the door and ushered me into her office. I looked around curiously, standing in front of what I assumed was her desk. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said it wasn’t that much larger than the crash room. It was a lot less spartan, though. As well as the desk and associated chairs, there were also a couple of sturdy-looking metal filing cabinets, and a rather overstuffed set of bookshelves. Various knick knacks and pictures adorned the place, brightening it up a little. For an office, it seemed awfully homey. If perhaps a little cluttered.  
  
“Please, take a seat,” she said, settling herself into her own chair.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said, and sat down. (Carefully.)  
  
She studied me thoughtfully.  
  
“How are you doing, Astrid?” she asked. “Did you sleep okay last night?”  
  
“Fine, thank you, Ma’am,” I answered cautiously, not entirely sure what she wanted to hear.  
  
“Beth is fine,” she told me. “Or Ms Grant, if you prefer a little more formality.” She gave me a brief smile. “But Ma’am makes me feel like you’re about to start saluting me. I’m with the Youth Guard, not the PRT, thank God. I don’t have a military bone in my body.”  
  
“I’m sorry, Ms Grant,” I said. Because, realistically, there was no way I was going to use her first name. Even if she wasn’t part of the chain of command, she clearly had authority of some kind, and I needed to be careful until I knew where she fit in. (I really wished I knew where **I** fit in.) “I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to address you.”  
  
It wasn’t an excuse, I told myself. It was an explanation. Not the same thing.  
  
“You don’t need to apologise,” she said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. If you’re ever unsure about anything, though, you can always ask. I don’t mind being asked questions.”  
  
“Understood, M- I mean, understood.”  
  
Dammit. This was hard. But I managed at school, and I could manage here. It was just a case of figuring out the hierarchy and where I fit within it. I could do that. I just needed information.  
  
Ms Grant looked at me for a moment or two, and I wondered if she was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t have the first clue what that might be, and so I remained silent. She picked up a reporter’s notebook and flipped it open, pulling a pen from a mug of them. (The mug said: You don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps. I wondered how true that was.)  
  
“Just so we’re on the same page,” she said. “My understanding is that you are a both a minor and a recently active parahuman. You have just left an unsafe home environment and you are interested in joining the Brockton Bay Wards programme. Parental permission for this is unlikely to be forthcoming. Is that correct?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant.”  
  
’Unsafe home environment.’  
  
That was one way of putting it.  
  
Ms Grant made a few notes on her pad, but I couldn’t read them from this angle. Not that I was sure I’d be able to read them in any case. Her handwriting resembled what I imagined would be the end result of a drunk spider falling in an ink well and then meandering its way over the page.  
  
“Before we get started,” she said. “I just want to tell you that this is a safe space. You can speak freely here, without fear of any kind of punishment or reprisal, and nothing you say will leave this room unless you give me your express permission. If anything or anyone — including myself — makes you feel uncomfortable or upset in any way, I would like you to tell me, and I’ll try to ensure it doesn’t happen again. If you have any questions or concerns — no matter how trivial or unimportant you might think they are — then I would like you to raise them. I’m here to look out for you and your welfare. In order to do that, I need information, so I encourage you to say whatever is on your mind. If it’s bothering you, it’s important, and if it’s important to you it’s important to me. Do you understand?”  
  
Not even a little.  
  
(It sounded like a trap. Like Dad telling me to speak freely, but punishing me if I said something he didn’t like. I couldn’t trust it. I couldn’t trust her. I had to be on my guard.)  
  
“Yes?” I lied, wishing I didn’t sound so uncertain.  
  
She sighed softly.  
  
“It’s alright if you don’t,” she said, and although her tone was gentle, it suddenly felt like my heart was in my mouth. “Like I said: this is a safe space where you can speak freely.”  
  
I really was a shitty liar. That was one of the reasons I was so nervous about this. There was so much information I was going to have to hide from them, and I absolutely couldn’t give them a reason to get suspicious. I just hoped I’d be better at lying by omission than I was at active deception.  
  
But what about right now? Should I try to brazen it out, or… No, there was no point. Anyway, I thought, somewhat fatalistically, I’d least I’d actually get to test Ms Grant’s claim that there would be no reprisals.  
  
“Sorry, Ms Grant,” I said quietly. “I guess I’m not really sure what you mean.”  
  
“And that’s alright,” she said, her tone reassuring. “Because now I know that, I can try to explain myself a little better.” Unexpectedly, she gave me a smile. “You wouldn’t be the only person who’s had to ask me to be a little clearer.”  
  
I nodded, more in acknowledgement than agreement.  
  
“Okay, let’s start with the basics, then,” she said briskly. “Do you know what the Youth Guard is?”  
  
I shook my head, trying not to feel like I was failing a test of some kind. (Was I? Was that what this was? A test?)  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t, Ms Grant,” I said, trying not to let my discomfort show. “I’ve heard the name, but that’s about all. I’m sorry.”  
  
“You don’t need to apologise for not knowing something,” she told me. “Especially when it’s something you’d have no reason to know up until now. I only asked so I didn’t end up telling you things you already knew.” There was that smile again, brief but seemingly genuine, making her blue eyes sparkle behind her glasses. “Trust me: there are enough people inside the PRT who don’t seem to have the first clue what we’re about, and they really **should** know better.”  
  
I felt myself relax just a tiny bit, despite knowing better than that; despite knowing that she was just trying to get me to lower my guard.  
  
It seemed that humour really was my weakness.  
  
Dammit.  
  
I wondered if Gallant had been giving her tips.  
  
“Alright,” she said, absently twirling her pen between her fingers. “Simply put, we’re here to look after the Wards’ welfare. We serve as a kind of watchdog organisation, making sure that the kids in the Wards programme aren’t being exploited, or put in excessive danger, that their educational needs are being met, and so on and so forth. We’re not here to get anyone in trouble or to be a pain in the PRT’s collective rear, despite what certain people seem to think. We’re just here to look out for the children. It really is that simple.”  
  
I frowned. That… honestly didn’t make much sense to me. How could the Wards do their job if they weren’t supposed to be exposed to danger?  
  
“Do you have a question?” Ms Grant asked me.  
  
“It just seems a little… counter-intuitive,” I said, hesitantly.  
  
“Because the Wards are supposed to fight villains?” There was an edge to her voice which made me tense a little, but I didn’t **think** it was directed at me. (I hoped it wasn’t directed at me.) “And you’re wondering how they can do that if we insist on wrapping them in cotton wool?”  
  
I searched for a diplomatic way to tell her she was spot on.  
  
“I, uh, wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way.” I swallowed back the instinctive ‘Ma’am.’ “But that’s the gist of it.”  
  
She sighed heavily, seeming tired all of a sudden.  
  
“The thing that people seem to forget,” she said tightly. “ **Especially** here in Brockton Bay, is that the Wards programme isn’t about fighting villains. At least, it’s not supposed to be. It’s supposed to be a way for young parahumans to figure out their powers safely; to give them a chance to decide for themselves if they actually want to go out and risk their lives. **Not** to throw a bunch of teenagers into the meat grinder and just hope that you don’t lose too many before you eventually funnel them into the Protectorate.”  
  
Gallant had said something similar, I recalled. But not nearly so… passionately. Or so baldly. I shifted uneasily in my seat, trying to find a polite way to say that her view of how things were ‘supposed to’ work seemed a tad… optimistic? Unrealistic? Completely cloud fucking cuckoo?  
  
Okay, maybe not that last one.  
  
The slight movement must have drawn her attention, because she looked directly at me and smiled a little sadly.  
  
“I know, it’s a little full-on, right? Maybe you’re thinking I’m making a mountain out of a molehill; that I’m overreacting.” Her tone turned drier than a desert. “Or even that I’m a crazy, out of touch harridan who’s doesn’t know the first thing about the harsh realities of life on the ground.”  
  
“I would never say anything like that, Ms Grant,” I quickly assured her.  
  
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” she said, giving me an unreadable look. “But I’ve heard that and similar sentiments from a number of the people around here. And while I would prefer to work with the PRT, rather than against them, it’s a rather sad truth that I can generally tell how well I’m doing my job by how much I seem to be irking the powers that be. Not that any of this likely means much to you right now, but it does speak to the reason why I’m being so blunt with you.”  
  
Blunt was one word for it. Not that I didn’t appreciate bluntness, but I just wasn’t sure what her goal was here.  
  
“Simply put,” she continued. “The PRT is invested in the Wards programme. It’s in their interests to encourage you to join. So the PRT representatives you are going to meet today will likely bend over backwards to convince you that it’s your best — maybe even your only — option right now. Not out of any kind of maliciousness, but simply because that’s their paradigm. That means they’re unlikely to give a, shall we say, full and frank description of the kinds of risks you’d be facing.”  
  
I frowned, trying to make sense of what she was saying. She was warning me that being a Ward was dangerous? I already knew that. I doubted the PRT agents were going to try to claim it wasn’t. Was she trying to talk me out of joining?  
  
“I’m aware of the risks,” I told her. “No one’s tried to tell me that there’s no danger. And I am willing to fight.”  
  
“Of course you are,” she murmured, sounding almost… sad. And so very, very tired. “You all are. That’s part of the problem.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“I’m… not sure I understand, Ms Grant.”  
  
“Never mind,” she said. “I’m just woolgathering.” In the space between one heartbeat and the next, she went from being distant and slightly sad to being businesslike and laser-focused. “To get back on track,” she continued. “My role here is to act as your advocate. That means it’s my responsibility to ensure that you’re treated fairly, that you’re not taken advantage of, that you’re given everything you need to make an informed choice, and that you’re not pushed into anything you will later regret.” Her lips quirked in a small smile. “Despite how it may seem, it’s not actually my job to talk you out of joining the Wards. This is your choice, and it would be wrong of me to try to make it for you. I just want to make sure that you think it over properly before you make such a weighty decision.”  
  
 “I have thought about it,” I tried to reassure her. “And I want to join the Wards. I really do think it will be the best thing for me.”  
  
She sighed softly and made some more notes on her pad.  
  
“Just be aware that you haven’t yet committed yourself to anything, and that it’s perfectly alright to change your mind. Similarly, if you’d rather not make a decision today, if you need time to think it over, then that’s fine too. All you have to do is let me know. Okay?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant,” I said, even though I couldn’t help thinking that the chances of me changing my mind, or even just requesting more time, were slim to fucking none.  
  
“Alright.” She said. “Now that’s out of the way, let me tell you a little about what’s going to happen next.” I tensed a little. “In about…” She looked at her watch. “Ten minutes, we’re due to meet with Joshua Reid, the PRT’s Child Protective Services specialist. He will be liaising with CPS on your behalf, and will essentially be your only point of contact with them. The purpose of the meeting is to establish the details of your home situation and to determine the most appropriate course of action.”  
  
“I can’t go back home!” I blurted out, suddenly terrified beyond reason that they would try to make me. “I **can’t**. Dad will-” I made myself stop before I gave away anything I shouldn’t. (Like the fact that he was going to hurt me until I **broke** , and that there would be nothing left of me afterwards.) “He won’t let me join the Wards,” I said instead, but even to my own ears I sounded scared. Weak. I wondered what I sounded like to Ms Grant.  
  
“Astrid, it’s alright,” she said, soothingly. “No one’s going to make you do anything that you don’t want to do. We’re certainly not going to return a minor to an unsafe environment. Trust me, that will not happen. As for joining the Wards…” She gave me a small, wry smile. “If you truly want to become a member, then there are ways around the parental permission requirement, and I believe that the PRT will be extremely motivated to make it happen. Honestly, the last thing you need to worry about is not being allowed to join.”  
  
She only said that because she didn’t know who and what I really was. And she couldn’t know. None of them could. I **had** to keep my secrets.  
  
Which meant I absolutely could not lose my shit right now. I took a deep breath and tried to make myself calm down.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, feeling only slightly mortified at my stupid little wibble fit. Okay, maybe more than just slightly. “And I’m sorry.”  
  
There was that sad look again, although I couldn’t for the life of me think why.  
  
“You really don’t have anything to apologise for,” she told me. “After meeting with Mr Reid, we’ve been pencilled in to Mrs Amanda Holmes in HR. If you’re still set on joining the Wards by then, she will take you through the intake process. Now, are there any questions you would like to ask me?”  
  
There probably should be, but no matter how I racked my brain now I couldn’t think of a single one. It was like my mind had gone completely blank.  
  
I was feeling somewhat overwhelmed.  
  
“I can’t think of any at the moment,” I said. “But I’ll probably have some later.”  
  
“Well, if you do think of anything, just speak up.” She made a note on her pad, then flipped it shut with a decisive motion, wedging the pen into the spiral binding. “Now,” she said briskly. “Shall we set off?”  
  
Why was she asking me, rather than telling me?  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant.”  
  
As we stood up to leave, I told myself that I wasn’t afraid. I told myself again as I followed the brisk clack-clacking of Ms Grant’s improbably high heels through he seemingly endless corridors of the PRT building. I told myself again as we approached our destination.  
  
If I was hoping for the third time to be the charm, I was shit out of luck.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The phrase ‘Child Protective Services specialist’ had led me to believe we would be meeting with an administrator of some kind. I was certainly not expecting Joshua Reid to be built like the broad side of a barn, have a nose that looked like it had been broken and set really badly, possibly multiple times, and carry himself like a soldier.  
  
I came to attention without even thinking about it.  
  
“Ms Grant,” Mr Reid said, somewhat coolly. I could be wrong, but I got the sense that he didn’t care for her overmuch. After what she’d told me about ‘working against’ the PRT in order to do her job, I wasn’t entirely surprised.  
  
“Mr Reid,” she replied, her own tone neutral.  
  
He nodded to her, and then turned to me and smiled.  
  
“You must be Astrid,” he said. (I was glad when he didn’t hold out a hand to shake, or make any kind of movement towards me.)  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I replied.  
  
“You can call me Reid,” he said, but he didn’t actually tell me not to call him Sir, so I decided to continue. (Better safe than sorry.) I wondered idly what his rank was, and why he wasn’t using it. “Please, take a seat.”  
  
When all three of us had seated ourselves, he turned to me and smiled, the expression seeming a little awkward on his features. Without preamble, he said: “I understand that you’ve left your home and are reluctant to go back. Could you please tell me why?”  
  
I took a deep breath. I’d thought about this; about what I could say when I was inevitably asked this question. I wasn’t good with words. I knew that. But I’d come up with an alternative.  
  
“It’s easier if I show you, Sir,” I said quietly.  
  
Mr Reid gave me a confused look as I got to my feet, but I deliberately looked away from him as I half-turned and hiked up my top, showing him my back. He audibly sucked in a breath.  
  
I hated doing this. I **hated** that I was going to have to paint myself as a fucking **victim**. (I felt sick at just how badly I was breaking the rules by showing them how he’d disciplined me. And at the fact that I’d be breaking more rules before the day was done.) But it was necessary. I couldn’t let them send me back, and I sure as shit couldn’t tell them the truth. So I guessed I’d just have to cope with being thought weak.  
  
Anyway, that was probably long enough.  
  
I pulled my top back down and resettled myself on the chair, glancing between Mr Reid and Ms Grant. He was just staring at me, his eyes wide. Jesus. You’d think he’d never seen bruises before. Her expression, on the other hand, was inscrutable.  
  
She turned to Mr Reid and, in a sharp tone, said: “You’d better take a good look at her, Reid, because if she joins the Brockton Bay Wards you can bet that’s not the last time she’s going to have bruises like that. Or worse.”  
  
I raised my eyebrows at that, somewhat startled at her reaction. Mr Reid, though, barely seemed to notice. He gave her a quick, distracted glance, but his attention was largely focused on me.  
  
“How…?” Mr Reid started, and then stopped. “What did…?” He took a breath, and then another one. When he spoke again, his voice was very tightly controlled. “Your father did that to you?”  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
“How?”  
  
I frowned. What did he mean? Did he want a blow by blow account? I was hardly going to tell him about the final exam, but I guessed there was something relatively innocuous I could say.  
  
“He used his belt, Sir.”  
  
(He’d said that if I was going to behave like a child, then he would have to discipline me like a child. At least when he just used his fists it felt like I had a chance to fight back. Even if I didn’t, not really. This, however, had been fucking **humiliating**.)  
  
Mr Reid seemed a little flustered. He picked up a fairly hefty looking book from the desk in front of him — a textbook or an instruction manual of some kind, by the looks of it — and started paging rapidly through it. I wondered what he was looking for.  
  
Ms Grant sighed.  
  
“Astrid,” she said, quietly.  
  
I turned to her. “Yes, Ms Grant?”  
  
“Is that the first time your father’s hurt you physically?”  
  
I shook my head.  
  
“It’s been going on for as long as I can remember,” I told her quietly. “But it’s been worse since I triggered.” Only technically true. This wasn’t the worst he’d ever hurt me, but hell week was the hardest he’d ever pushed me during training. But given what he was likely to do to make me kill for him… Yeah, I was pretty sure that would count as ‘worse.’  
  
“Do you believe he would have hurt you again if you’d stayed?”  
  
I had to swallow against the sudden lump in my throat.  
  
“I know he would, Ma’am,” I said quietly, only belatedly remembering that she’d asked me not to call her that. She didn’t seem angry about it, though. She turned to Mr Reid, who was still frantically paging through his book as if it held the wisdom of the ages.  
  
“Seems like a clear-cut case for an emergency removal order,” she told him, her tone a little sharp.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed, apparently either missing or merely choosing to ignore her tone. He looked at me again, and his eyes held something that looked a little too much like pity for my liking. But that was okay. That was fine. That was fucking **peachy** as long as I got what I needed out of the bargain. “I’m going to need some information from you, Astrid.”  
  
“Yes, Sir?”  
  
Turned out that this was the point at which they needed to know my name. They were going to petition for me to be removed from Dad’s custody, which of course meant that they needed to know who we both were. I felt sick even thinking about doing this — literally sick to my stomach — but I couldn’t let it stop me. I’d gone through this over and over again in my head and I didn’t see any other option.  
  
I needed Dad out of the picture. Compromising his current civilian alias would do that. SOP in this situation was to pack up and move: abandon that identity and pick up another one. To go underground. If I was really lucky he’d even leave the fucking city.  
  
He’d let me go.  
  
I didn’t think I was going to be that lucky, but at the very least it should make it a little more difficult for him to get to me.  
  
I hoped.  
  
I prayed.  
  
The rest of the meeting passed relatively quickly. Mr Reid — occasionally prompted by Ms Grant — asked me a whole bunch of questions, which I answered the best of my ability while sticking within the limits of my cover story. So, no mention of Dad being a cape, nothing about the mission; nothing to suggest that the Berklow family were anything other than completely ordinary. I hoped Dad would get the message.  
  
I could have outed him. I didn’t. Now all he had to do in return was let me go.  
  
“I don’t want anyone to get in trouble,” I told Mr Reid and Ms Grant, when the questions finally seemed to have stopped. “I just don’t want to go back.”  
  
The two of them exchanged a glance. Mr Reid, however, was the one who spoke.  
  
“I’m afraid that’s out of our hands,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle for someone who looked like such a bruiser. His expression darkened a little as he added. “Although, if you ask me, your father deserves a little trouble.”  
  
“It’s not that bad, Sir,” I found myself saying, out of habit. “It looks worse than it is.”  
  
Mr Reid stared at me for a moment, and I couldn’t even guess what was going through his head. He turned to Ms Grant, and despite the fact that they really didn’t seem to get on at all, there was a certain helpless appeal in the look he gave her.  
  
She sighed softly.  
  
“If we’re done here, I’ll need to take Astrid to the infirmary.”  
  
I blinked at her, both startled and uncomfortable.  
  
“I’m not sure that’s necessary, Ms Grant. There’s no serious damage.”  
  
“Leaving aside the fact that there’s really no way of knowing that for certain without having a doctor examine you, we need to have your injuries documented so they can be entered into evidence. Your father can contest the removal order if he chooses, and it’s to your benefit to make sure all the i’s are dotted and t’s are crossed.”  
  
Oh. Well. When she put it that way…  
  
“I understand.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The less said about the medical examination the better. I wasn’t particularly shy, but that didn’t mean being poked and prodded by a stranger was anything but an uncomfortable experience at best. I was just grateful that the doctor was a brusque, no nonsense kind of woman. If she felt sorry for me at all, she didn’t give any sign of it whatsoever.  
  
I really appreciated that.  
  
The examination didn’t take all that long, in the grand scheme of things, but I still felt kind of drained by the time it was over. And the day only just barely half over.  
  
Still, the next part I was at least looking forward to, in a vaguely anxious kind of way.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The woman stood up as Ms Grant and I entered her office, a smile on her face.  
  
“Good afternoon, Astrid,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Amanda. I’m so pleased to meet you.”  
  
I was a little taken aback by just how perky she was. I idly wondered how many cups of coffee she’d had so far today. Unless her pep was all natural…  
  
“It’s good to meet you too, Ma’am.”  
  
“Just Amanda, please,” she said, pulling a face. “Ma’am makes me feel old.”  
  
I wondered if she’d mind me calling her Mrs Holmes. Maybe I should just try and avoid using a name at all. Or would that be rude?  
  
“Please, take a seat. Would you care for any refreshments before we begin? Tea, coffee, water? We have some biscuits somewhere…”  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, taking the offered seat.  
  
“Tea would be much appreciated,” Ms Grant said. “I’m utterly parched.”  
  
Ms Holmes picked up the phone on her desk and requested a tea and a coffee of whoever was on the other end. An assistant or intern of some kind, I assumed.  
  
“You’re sure you don’t want anything?” she asked me.  
  
I considered a moment.  
  
“A glass of water, please.”  
  
Once she’d finished ordering refreshments, she settled back in her seat and smiled brightly at me.  
  
“So,” she said, cheerfully. “I understand that you’re interested in joining the Wards…”


	16. Agoraphobia 2.04

I felt a little strange as I followed Ms Grant through the corridors once more. Even with my much longer legs, I had to pick up the pace a little to keep up with her brisk stride. The staccato clacking of her heels echoed like gunshots in the corridor. She seemed angry, and that thought made my stomach twist queasily with unease. Because she had authority over me now, didn’t she? If I’d understood the situation correctly. Honestly, there was a good chance I hadn’t understood it at all. There’d been such a lot of information to process that, despite my best efforts, I’d ended up completely and utterly overwhelmed. I just hoped I hadn’t missed anything too important.  
  
But, for once, my worries and my fears couldn’t quite keep their hold on me, my mind instead drawn again and again to one particular thought like iron filings pulled towards a magnet.  
  
I was a Ward now.  
  
I mean, I didn’t have a cape name yet, or a costume, but in the confidential files where such things were discreetly recorded, Astrid Elizabeth Berklow was now officially a member of the Brockton Bay Wards.  
  
No, wait.  
  
Carver, not Berklow. I was Astrid Elizabeth Carver, now.  
  
To my surprise, Mrs Holmes had asked me if I wanted to change my name as part of the intake process. I’d agreed almost before I realised what it was she was asking. Not that simply changing my surname would necessarily stop Dad tracking me down, but it couldn’t hurt. It would have helped more if I’d been willing to change my whole name, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I might have had more surnames than I could even remember any more, but I’d been Astrid my whole life. I didn’t want to change that now.   
  
(Especially considering that the whole point of this exercise — running away from home; joining the Wards — was part of a desperate attempt to stay myself.)  
  
(Whoever that was.)  
  
The name Carver didn’t mean anything to me, of course. I’d picked it at random from a list of common American surnames. None of the surnames we’d used over the years had ever actually meant anything. Letting sentiment influence your choice of cover identity was just bad tradecraft. Honestly, in hindsight, I was almost surprised we’d been allowed to keep out first names.  
  
It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t even know Dad’s actual last name. I wasn’t sure Lance did either. Hell, I didn’t even know Lance’s mother’s name. All I really knew about her was that she’d existed, she’d given birth to Lance, and she’d left the pair of them, probably before I became part of the family. Dad never talked about her, at least not to me. Maybe he spoke about her to Lance when I wasn’t there, like he spoke to me about my own mother.  
  
(I knew my real surname, of course. Dad had made sure of that. He’d always made sure I knew exactly where I came from, to the best of his knowledge. But I buried that thought as deep as I could and tried not to think about it.)  
  
(If I didn’t let myself know something, there was less risk of me giving it away.)  
  
(And this was a secret I had to keep at all costs.)  
  
Our arrival at the crash room pulled me out of my thoughts. I wondered uneasily if I was in trouble; if maybe I’d unknowingly done something wrong during the meeting with Mrs Holmes. I’d been dazed enough by the time we’d left the HR department that I could have committed countless offences without even realising it. I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask, though. I opened the door and held it for Ms Grant to enter.  
  
“This really is rather spartan, isn’t it?” she observed, glancing around the small room.  
  
“It served its purpose,” I said. A little dryly, I added: “I really only cared that it had a bed.”  
  
I could have slept on the floor, of course, but it really wouldn’t have been at all comfortable. Anyway, the room, spartan though it was, was vastly preferable to the cell I’d half been expecting. I thought I’d better keep that particular observation to myself, however.  
  
“The rooms in the Wards HQ are a little better, I believe,” she told me, frowning slightly. “But not by much. Still, you’ll be able to do something about that.”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant.”  
  
That was where I was going to stay for the time being. There had been talk of maybe sorting out something a little more permanent at some point but, honestly, I really didn’t mind. I was actually pretty damn happy to be staying there, as a matter of fact. It was secure, it had a kitchen **and** a gym, and it was literally made of metal.  
  
My kind of place.  
  
I carefully slid my lab book into my bag and zipped it closed.  
  
(I could’ve kicked myself for leaving it out in the open like that. I’d just been so flustered when Ms Grant finally turned up that I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d been sloppy. I’d been careless.)  
  
(‘I didn’t train you to be careless, **girl**.’)  
  
(My shorthand was fairly inscrutable, but not exactly undecipherable if someone put a bit of effort into it. Although, I supposed, anyone sufficiently interested in my scribblings to put that bit of effort in would surely be motivated enough to dig the notebook out of my bag even if I had stowed it there. Honestly, I was almost surprised that, as far as I could tell, no one had actually gone through my things. Another useful application of my power. I guessed I could just have sealed my bag, possibly dissuading anyone who was worried about leaving traces, but then they’d know I could do that. Anyway, I didn’t actually have anything incriminating in there. Learning whether or not they were the kind of people who would go through my things the second I was out of the room was more important than keeping them from doing so.)  
  
(Even if the mere thought of someone pawing through my meagre possessions set my teeth on edge.)  
  
(Of course, just because they didn’t seem to have physically opened my bag, that didn’t mean they hadn’t taken a look at the contents. Who knew what kind of weird scanners and other technology the PRT might have access to? But I had no way of finding that out, so there was really no point in worrying about it.)  
  
(A little paranoia was healthy. Too much could be crippling, though, and I was skirting dangerously close to that particular rabbit hole for my liking.)  
  
(I just wasn’t sure how to make myself stand down.)  
  
I gave the room a quick once over to be sure I hadn’t left anything lying around, and then picked up my bag, turning to Ms Grant.  
  
“I’m ready to go,” I told her.  
  
She nodded and clacked her way onwards.  
  
I made sure the door was closed properly and fell in behind her. It wasn’t as though I didn’t know where I was going, but she seemed like the kind of person who preferred to stride ahead. Even though I still wasn’t entirely sure how she managed such a brisk pace. In what felt like hardly any time at all, we were at one of the elevators that would take me down to the Wards HQ.  
  
“This is where we part ways for now,” she told me. “I doubt anyone is down there at the moment, as they should all still be in school, but the whole team will be there for the two o’ clock briefing. I suggest you take the time until then to relax and settle in, maybe pick out a room.”  
  
“I’ll do that,” I said, although I wondered uneasily if I should maybe wait to pick a room until I checked whether any of them had been claimed already. I wasn’t sure if any of the other Wards were actually living in the HQ, or if it would just be me.  
  
“Oh!” Ms Grant said, almost as an afterthought. “And don’t forget to have some lunch.”  
  
“I won’t forget,” I assured her, trying not to smile. Like I would ever voluntarily miss a meal. Nutrition was pretty fucking important when it came to maintaining my level of fitness, and I had no intention of letting that slide.  
  
“Well, then,” she said, nodding. “I suppose I’ll see you at five. Do you need directions to my office?”  
  
“I can remember the way.”  
  
The PRT building was a little byzantine, but well within my ability to navigate. I’d always had a pretty good sense of direction, even before Dad had, in his own inimitable way, helped me to improve it. Anyway, I could cheat now. It turned out that knowing exactly where I was in the building was a side-benefit of using my power on it. A fucking **awesome** side-benefit.  
  
“Then goodbye for now, Astrid, and good luck.”  
  
Luck, huh? I really hoped I didn’t need it.  
  
Because, in my experience, if I was down to relying on that fickle bitch fortune, then chances were I was already well and truly fucked.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I had an anxious moment when I swiped my access card and used the retina scanner in the elevator, but I relaxed a little when I didn’t end up smothered in containment foam. Apparently I really was in the system now. Mrs Holmes had assured me I would be, but… Well. Let’s just say I’d had my doubts.  
  
I still couldn’t quite believe just how easy all this had been. I mean, less than twenty-four hours since I’d made that fateful phone call to Gallant, and here I was, a Ward. The PRT certainly seemed to be a surprisingly trusting lot. I could have been anyone. I could have been trying to infiltrate them, whether as a spy or just to cause them some major damage.  
  
My power surged a little, reminding me that I could, in fact, bring the building down if I chose. That it was an option.  
  
Except, of course, it wasn’t. And it wouldn’t be, as long as I had anything to say about it.  
  
Anyway, doing something like that would be completely fucking counterproductive, considering I was kind of counting on gaining at least some measure of protection from joining this gang.  
  
Wait. No. They probably didn’t call themselves that. They had an image to maintain, after all. Squad, then? No, we weren’t supposed to be soldiers. Allegedly. Group, perhaps? Hmm… A little wishy-washy. Didn’t really convey much of an image of strength. Organisation? Possibly.  
  
Whatever. I guessed I’d figure it out.  
  
My card and biometrics also got me through the security scanner controlling access to the Hub.  
  
I guessed today would not be the day where I got to test whether or not my power worked on containment foam.  
  
(Mental note: find out who I needed to talk to about requesting a sample of containment foam. Assuming I’d be allowed to have some to play with.)  
  
I looked around at the place that was to be my home for the foreseeable future, feeling a little… lost. I’d left behind everything I’d ever known, and now it felt like I had no frame of reference. No landmarks. Like I was cast adrift in strange waters. To mix my metaphors somewhat, this was a brave new world in which I found myself, and I still had very little idea of where I fit within it.  
  
(I just hoped I didn’t fare as poorly as John had in the end.)  
  
In an attempt to shake myself out of the sudden maudlin turn my thoughts had taken and, hopefully, to ease some of my restlessness, I wandered the Wards HQ for a little while. I felt a little like I was trespassing; like at any moment a squad of security guards would swoop in and tell me that I wasn’t supposed to be here. (That I’d be hauled away and punished for having the temerity to even think I could be something more than what my father made me.)  
  
Shit, I hoped this would get better. Maybe having my own room here would help. I went to take a look at them, but didn’t really want to start opening doors at random in case they belonged to anyone. Someone had stencilled a ‘V’ on one of the doors; for Vista, I assumed. Did she live here too, then?  
  
The security guard had been right about there being a gym here, I was pleased to note. A fairly large and well-appointed gym, as it happened. I looked forward to trying it out, maybe tonight before bed.  
  
I peeked into the workshop as well, somewhat relieved to note that it had been tidied extensively since I’d last seen it. Everything seemed to be more or less back in its proper place. There were a few unfinished devices out, but they’d at least been pushed neatly into a corner of one of the benches, rather than cluttering up the whole thing. Just like last time, my skin practically itched with the urge to let my power trail through them, not to mention the various different metals and other materials I could see in the cabinets. I resisted, though. I figured it was a fairly safe bet that a tinker would be as territorial about his inventions as I, apparently, was about my metal. But maybe at some point I could ask Kid Win if he minded me taking a quick look…  
  
I checked my watch, a little surprised to find I’d spent longer wandering around aimlessly than I thought. I wasn’t running late yet, but I definitely wouldn’t want to wait too much longer before having lunch. Well, might as well go now, I supposed.  
  
After a moment’s dithering, I decided to take my bag with me.  
  
Better safe than sorry, after all.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The PRT staff canteen was much busier than it had been this morning, which I supposed made sense. I definitely got a few looks, but that might have been due to the fact that I was lugging my bag around as much as my mask. Maybe I should have left it in the Wards HQ, but it made me feel better to have it with me where I could keep an eye on it. It had been one thing leaving it in the crash room. I at least had the pretence of controlling access to that. But any of the Wards would have been free to have a rummage if they’d had a mind to. Just because there wasn’t anything overly important in there didn’t mean I was willing to let people paw through it. Not that they necessarily would, of course, but…  
  
I just felt happier having it with me.  
  
The same cashier from earlier was still on duty. She nodded and smiled at me as I reached the till.  
  
“I see you decided to take my advice,” she said, nodding at the raspberry crumble I’d decided on a whim to put on my tray along with my plate of beef stroganoff, bottle of water and apple.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, returning her smile. “It does look good.”  
  
And, well, I felt the need to celebrate.  
  
In lieu of Captain Cavendish’s note, this time I handed over my newly-minted Wards access card, which I’d been assured would let me get my meals free of charge at both the staff canteen and the visitor cafeteria. (Apparently this was how the PRT had decided to fulfil their new responsibility of providing for me. At least in the short term.) The cashier raised an eyebrow, but scanned the card and handed it back, her smile widening.  
  
“Congratulations,” she told me. “And welcome to the family.”  
  
That was… an unexpected way of phrasing it. It startled me a little.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, belatedly, strangely cheered by the well wishes. I actually felt a little lighter, a little less tense, as I made my way through the busy canteen and found myself a seat. Maybe… Maybe I could do this after all.  
  
I pulled out my maths text book to flick through while I ate the stroganoff, which was adequate but nothing to write home about. Since I was celebrating, however, I set my textbook aside in favour of a novel when I got to dessert.  
  
(I felt a little guilty, but I tried to tell myself that it was okay.)  
  
It was… nice.  
  
(Even though I half-expected to get in trouble for it.)  
  
The raspberry crumble itself was somewhat better than merely ‘nice’. It was delicious; the perfect blend of sweet and tart. And the texture was something else.  
  
(I made a mental note to try to figure out precisely how my sense of taste had been affected by my power.)  
  
I wondered idly if all the desserts here were so good. If so, I might have to step up my workout routine a notch so I could try them all.  
  
Movement caught my eye. Movement, and the glint of metal. I looked up to see a costumed figure making his way through the canteen. Male, tall, athletically built. Rust red costume with silver-white trim and a shield emblem.  
  
Aegis.  
  
Brute/mover. Current leader of the Wards.  
  
My new commander.  
  
I felt a strange, almost overwhelming mixture of relief and apprehension. In this, at least, I knew where I stood. I didn’t need to worry about figuring out my place. But, at the same time, I didn’t know quite what to expect of and from him. What kind of leader was he? What kind of person was he?  
  
(What pissed him off? What were his tells and warning signs? How did he discipline his subordinates?)  
  
(How could I avoid making him angry with me?)  
  
Was his being here just a coincidence, or…?  
  
In that moment, he spotted me and started moving with a purpose. Not a coincidence then. He’d come here looking for me? I briefly wondered how he knew who I was, but then mentally kicked myself as the obvious answer came to mind. How many other masked teenage girls were currently sitting in this canteen? Hint: it was a round number. How he knew **where** I was was a slightly more interesting question, but there were a couple of possibilities. Logic was one. It was lunchtime, and if I wasn’t in the Wards HQ, it wasn’t an unreasonable supposition that I might be here. Or they could simply have tracked my card use. In any event, that just left one real question of interest.  
  
 **Why** was he looking for me?  
  
Was I…? I wasn’t late, was I? I didn’t **think** I’d lost track of time, but I felt my chest get tight, my pulse starting to pick up as I felt the first stirrings of a panic I couldn’t quite suppress. I surreptitiously glanced at my watch, relieved beyond measure to realise that there was still forty minutes to go until the scheduled briefing. I had lingered here a little longer than I’d been intending, but still well within acceptable limits.   
  
Okay. I wasn’t late.  
  
(Maybe I wasn’t in trouble.)  
  
But… But he was going to see that I was slacking off, rather than doing something useful. Shit! I was going to make a terrible first impression. I quickly put my book down, resisting the urge to try to hide it beneath my textbook. That would definitely make me look guilty, and would probably draw more attention.  
  
He smiled as he drew near.  
  
(I was a little surprised to notice that his skin, what I could see of it, was dark. Not black, but not white either. I started to wonder what race he was, but as soon as I realised where my train of thought was headed I shut that whole fucking line down. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t let it matter.)  
  
(I would be **better**.)  
  
“Astrid? I’m Aegis, the Wards team leader. It’s good to meet you.”  
  
He held out a hand to shake. (I was proud of myself for managing not to flinch at the movement. I was disgusted at myself for having that instinct in the first place.) I stood to attention and shook his hand. His grip was… careful. Not weak, but he had the caution of someone who was strong enough that they couldn’t use their full strength without breaking things. Or hurting people. It made sense for someone with a brute rating.  
  
(I wasn’t sure why I felt queasy all of a sudden. Maybe the raspberry crumble had been a little too much for my stomach.)  
  
“You too, Sir,” I said quietly. I couldn’t quite make myself return his smile.  
  
(I wouldn’t want him to think I was being disrespectful.)  
  
From what I could see of his face — more than I would have expected, given he was wearing a helmet — he looked a little taken aback. I wasn’t entirely sure why.  
  
“Oh. Um, you don’t have to… I mean, we’re not usually quite so formal around here.” He laughed a little. It sounded… awkward, but not insincere. “You have met Clockblocker, right?”  
  
I blinked at him, confused by his reaction. Was it because of the setting? Was this supposed to be an informal chat? But he hadn’t told me to stand down, so…  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said cautiously, carefully studying him for any hint as to what was going through his head. Was this a test? (Was I failing?) “But you are the team leader, and I was taught to respect the chain of command.”  
  
It was his turn to blink at me now, and he looked… utterly nonplussed. Unless I was reading him wrong, which was a distinct possibility.  
  
“But we’re the same age,” he said, like that was somehow a counterpoint. “More or less, anyway.” He even **sounded** discombobulated. Although I wasn’t certain what our relative ages had to do with anything. He was still the team leader, which meant I was subordinate to him.  
  
I hesitated a moment, suddenly feeling completely and utterly out of my depth as I searched desperately for something to say. In the end, I settled on the hopefully safe: “I hope I haven’t caused offence, Sir.”  
  
I couldn’t see **why** he would be offended by me showing the proper respect, but who the fuck knew what was going through his mind right now?  
  
“What? No. No, of course not. I mean, I don’t mind. It’s just…” He stopped, took a breath, smiled again. “You caught me a little by surprise, that’s all.”  
  
I raised my eyebrows a little at that. I’d surprised him by using the proper form of address for a superior officer? What kind of clown shoes outfit had I signed on with here? Just how unprofessional were my new team mates? Or was he just that (soft)… lenient?  
  
Hellfire and damnation!  
  
The one place I was **sure** I’d be on solid ground, and it turned out to be a fucking quagmire. That was just **great**.  
  
“Would you prefer I stop, Sir?”  
  
I wasn’t entirely sure I could, but if it was an order… Shit. Talk about an irresistible force meeting an immovable object.  
  
Aegis looked at me for a moment, and then sighed.  
  
“Just do whatever makes you comfortable, okay?” he said, and it suddenly felt like I could breathe again. (I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding my breath.)  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, sincerely meaning it.  
  
“Anyway,” he said, after a short pause. “I’m sorry for interrupting your lunch. I won’t keep you long.” I felt a surprisingly powerful rush of relief at the fact that I apparently would get to finish off my dessert after all. I honestly hadn’t been sure. “I, ah, just wanted to come and say hello before everyone else showed up, that’s all. And to make sure that you knew about the briefing this afternoon.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I confirmed. “Fourteen hundred hours in the Hub.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, the most peculiar note in his voice. Clearly I was going to have to put a little effort into figuring him out. He didn’t **seem** angry with me, but who the fuck knew what kinds of tells I could be missing right now? Dammit. I was hoping that this would be the one interaction I **wouldn’t** have to work all that hard at. “Don’t worry if a lot of it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you right now. It’s more just to give you an idea of what to expect. And afterwards, I was figuring we could do the whole team meet and greet thing, if that’s okay with you.”  
  
Was that a question?  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said cautiously. “Although I think I’ve met just about everyone by now.”  
  
Unless they’d gotten any new members since last I checked, the only one of them I hadn’t encountered yet was Shadow Stalker. I had to admit I was kind of curious to meet the girl who single-handedly kept Winslow High School more or less free of gang violence. I had to respect her dedication to her cause.  
  
“Yes,” he agreed. “But this is your introduction as a new member of the team.” He smiled at me. “It’s kind of a big deal.”  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said, trying not to sound as apprehensive as I felt. Would I be expected to address them all? God, I hoped not. Words, as I’d apparently kept proving over and over again since calling Gallant yesterday afternoon, were really not my forté.  
  
I felt woefully unprepared for this. Still, that had never stopped me before. I’d just have to figure it out as I went.  
  
“So,” he said, just as the silence started to feel really fucking uncomfortable. “Have you picked out a room yet?”  
  
“No, Sir. I wanted to check if any of them were in currently in use first.”  
  
“Well, Vista’s claimed one of them, but you probably figured that one out already.” In a confiding tone, he added: “She doesn’t actually live here, but she stays over so often that she might as well do. Certainly often enough that it’s worth having somewhere she can keep her things. Other than that, it’s a free for all, so you should be able to take your pick.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, relieved. “I’ll choose one when I go back downstairs.”  
  
“Great!” he said, enthusiastically. Honestly, probably more enthusiastically than my statement really warranted, but maybe he was finding this whole conversation just as awkward as I was. “Well, then. There are some things I need to take care of before the briefing, so I will let you get back to your lunch. See you in a little while, Astrid.”  
  
“Goodbye, Sir,” I replied.  
  
Somehow, I had the feeling that both of us were relieved when he left.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I could hear voices when I stepped into the Hub. Clockblocker and Kid Win were ensconced on the sofa in front of the big screen, playing some kind of computer game. I was a little surprised that they weren’t prepping for the briefing, but maybe they’d done that already. They glanced over at my approach.  
  
“Hey, Astrid. Welcome to the team!” Clockblocker called.  
  
“Hi,” Kid Win said. “What he said.” He grinned. “And, believe me, that is not something I say often.”  
  
“Dude! No fair dissing me in front of the new girl. Give her the chance to form her own opinion before you go corrupting her with your foul calumnies.”  
  
“She has met you already,” Kid Win pointed out. “I’m sure she’s had plenty of opportunity to form an opinion of you. Like, in the first five minutes.” He wasn’t exactly wrong, I thought, amused. “Anyway,” Kid Win continued. “What’s a calumny when it’s at home?”  
  
“A false and defamatory statement,” I answered without thinking. “From the Latin calumnia.”  
  
They paused their game and stared at me. Well, Kid Win definitely did, and Clockblocker’s mask was facing my direction. I felt really fucking self-conscious all of a sudden. What was their problem?  
  
“New Girl has hidden depths,” Clockblocker said. I bristled a little at the implications of his statement, but tried to tamp it down, making myself take a breath before responding.  
  
(Based on this and what I’d seen yesterday, they all seemed to treat each other like peers. No sign of any official internal hierarchy as far as I could tell. I was part of the team, now. That meant it was probably safe for me to respond in kind.)  
  
(Anyway, if my assumptions were incorrect, I’d rather find out sooner rather than later.)  
  
“Three things,” I said, dropping my bag on one of the chairs. “First, I’m not sure the combination of being poorly socialised and widely read precisely counts as having hidden depths. Second, I have a fucking name, thank you very much. Third…” I paused for effect, looking Clockblocker right in where I thought his eyes were. “Are you always an asshole, or are you just making a special effort for the new girl?”  
  
There was a moment where things could have gone either way. (Where my stomach twisted in unease and I thought for sure I’d miscalculated; that I’d pissed off the wrong person and was going to get smacked down for it.) But then Kid Win smirked and Clockblocker burst out laughing.  
  
“I knew I liked you,” he pronounced, apparently way more amused than my pathetic attempt at banter really merited.  
  
“Yeah, he’s always like this,” Kid Win informed me. “Except when he’s worse.”  
  
“Vista said something similar yesterday,” I noted.  
  
“You’re all against me,” Clockblocker sighed, sounding distinctly unfazed by the prospect. I relaxed a little more. It was hard not seeing even part of his face. So many of the usual cues were missing. But he didn’t **sound** angry, so this probably wasn’t going to turn violent.  
  
(I didn’t even know what the Wards’ rules about members settling disputes between themselves even **were**. And this didn’t really seem like the best time to ask. Maybe it was something I’d be able to figure out through observation.)  
  
“Yep, that’s exactly it.” Kid Win’s voice was utterly deadpan. “We’re all secretly conspiring against you. Oh no. Whatever will we do now you’ve figured out our nefarious scheme?”  
  
“I knew it!” Clockblocker sat up straight, pointing dramatically at Kid Win. “J’accuse!”  
  
I rolled my eyes at his shenanigans and checked my watch.  
  
“Well, fun as this is, guys,” I said. “I need to pick out a room before the briefing, and time is rapidly marching on.” I picked up my bag again and, not sure what else to say, gave them a stupid little wave as I started to make my way towards the living quarters.  
  
“Hold up, New Girl; we’ll help.” Clockblocker apparently had two modes: ‘chewing the scenery’ and ‘irrepressibly cheerful.’ This seemed to be the second one.  
  
I thought about reminding him that I had a goddamn name but, honestly, there didn’t seem to be much point. I was pretty sure he was just being contrary now. Anyway, I didn’t really mind that much.  
  
(At least he wasn’t just calling me ‘girl.’ I fucking **hated** it when Dad did that, and not just because it generally meant that I was in trouble.)  
  
My first instinct was to tell him I didn’t need help, but something made me reconsider. I had to try to get to know them sometime, I guessed. Why not start now?  
  
“You can come with me if you like,” I informed Clockblocker. “But I’m not sure I really need any help.”  
  
“You never know,” he said. “Anyway, I’m awesome at helping. I’m a **helper**.”  
  
For some reason, something about the way he said that made me want to smile.  
  
“Yeah, that’s exactly the word that comes to mind when I think of you,” I told him, smirking.  
  
There was a brief pause, and then: “So, you’ve been thinking of me, have you?” I instantly lost the smirk, my face flushing bright crimson at his blatantly suggestive tone. “Why, Astrid; I’m flattered,” he continued, while I struggled for words. “I hadn’t realised I’d made such an… impression.”  
  
“No, that’s not… I was just… I didn’t mean…” I stammered, completely thrown for a loop. I made myself stop talking and take a breath. I was so fucking embarrassed at how easily and how completely he’d managed to fluster me.  
  
Hellfire and damnation!  
  
“That’s adorable,” he said. And I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that he was smirking underneath that goddamn mask.  
  
And then the bastard laughed.  
  
I really fucking **hated** being laughed at.  
  
And, seriously: adorable? That was just rude. Made me sound like a goddamn puppy, or kitten, or some other small and harmless thing.  
  
Whatever other words might be used to describe me, fucking **adorable** was not one of them.  
  
“ **Asshole** ,” I practically growled, clenching my hands into fists.  
  
“Do you want me to take your bag?” Kid Win interjected, and I had never been so thankful for an interruption. Even if it did come with a side of irritation about the fact that he apparently thought I was fucking **frail** or something.  
  
“No thanks, it’s fine,” I said. If he could hear the irritation in my voice, hopefully he’d just put it down to the fact that Clockblocker was being an asshole. I tried to push my anger aside as I crossed the Hub to go and take a look at the rooms. This really wasn’t the time. I could be calm. I **would** be calm. “So,” I continued, when I thought I could speak without sounding as though my words emerged through gritted teeth. “Apart from Vista’s room, none of the others are taken, right?”  
  
That was what Aegis had said, but it didn’t hurt to double check. Anyway, it was something to say that didn’t involve swearing a blue streak at Clockblocker.  
  
“That’s right,” Kid Win said.  
  
I nodded and started opening doors. It didn’t take long to check all of them — there weren’t that many. And, honestly, they all seemed much of a muchness. Well, except one.  
  
“I stayed in that one last night,” Clockblocker said, crowding in behind me and very nearly earning himself an elbow to the face. From instinct, this time, not from anger. I really didn’t like having people behind me. Or so close.  
  
“That explains why it’s a tip,” I murmured. Unmade bed, bits of clothing scattered hither and yon… Why didn’t it surprise me that he was a slob?  
  
“I’ll tidy it later,” he said, waving a hand dismissively at the mess. I rolled my eyes, but forbore to comment.  
  
“I guess you’ll be wanting to get some furniture and stuff if you’re actually going to be living here,” Kid Win said.  
  
“Yeah,” I agreed. The rooms basically had a bed and a laundry hamper. At the very least I was going to need a desk and chair, some bookshelves and a wardrobe. Not that I had enough clothes to really need a wardrobe right now, but hopefully I’d be able to do something about that. “I’m just glad I’m getting an advance on my pay. I should hopefully be able to get some stuff relatively soon.”  
  
I had a bank account now and everything; my first one ever. Well, I would have when they finished setting it up, but I’d been assured that would be within the next day or so. Apparently the PRT really could make things happen quickly when they wanted to.  
  
“Cool,” Kid Win said.  
  
“Okay,” I said, making a decision. “This one.” Second room from the end closest to the exit.  
  
I set my bag down on the bed.  
  
“We can move some of the walls around a little to give you a bit more space,” Kid Win suggested from the doorway. “That’s what we did with Vista’s.”  
  
“Not that space is really an issue for her,” Clockblocker added.  
  
I supposed it wouldn’t be. Her power was really pretty amazing.  
  
“Sure, sounds good.” I certainly wouldn’t mind having a slightly larger room. The default set up was rather… compact. I checked the time. “Maybe after the briefing?”  
  
“It’s a date,” Clockblocker said, because of course he fucking did, in that sly, suggestive tone that made me want to punch him in the fucking face. I settled for glowering at him instead.  
  
Kid Win elbowed him in the side, but he didn’t react.  
  
“Sorry about him,” Kid Win said, giving me a rueful smile.  
  
“Standing right here, man,” Clockblocker protested, but he sounded more amused than anything.  
  
I ignored him, returning Kid Win’s smile.  
  
“You should put a sign on the door,” he said. “So people know it’s yours.”  
  
“Good idea.” I stepped out of the room, closing the door behind me. The metal door. (I loved the fact that the Wards HQ was mostly made of metal. As far as I was concerned, that was one of its best features.) I smiled to myself as I sent my power through it. _(Mine.)_ “That should do for now,” I said, stepping away to admire my handiwork: A raised letter A at the centre of an abstract design that looked kind of like a spider’s web. All in all, I was pretty pleased with it.  
  
“Cool,” Clockblocker said.  
  
“Thanks,” I replied, and my mood must have been greatly improved because now I could actually speak to him without snarling. Actively using my power — as opposed to merely passively sensing with it — had helped to steady me, easing a tension I hadn’t even realised was there. Maybe I should stop trying so hard to keep my metal quiescent. We were all capes here, after all. What did it matter if they saw me use my power? Vista hadn’t seemed to have any qualms about showing hers off, yesterday.  
  
And maybe it would help me keep my temper under control around Clockblocker.  
  
I had to resist the sudden urge to flex my power further, to do much more than simply trace out bonds and structures. The things I could do with all this metal…  
  
No. No, that was a bad idea. I **really** didn’t want to risk breaking the Wards HQ or, worse, the whole damn PRT building. It was probably best to stick to looking and not touching.  
  
(It wasn’t nearly satisfying enough.)  
  
At least for the moment.  
  
Kid Win stepped forward and ran his fingers over the raised design I’d made. I suppressed a small flare of irritation about the fact that he didn’t even ask first. (It was just the door, I told myself. It wasn’t like he was actually going in my room. I needed to simmer the fuck down.)  
  
“You did that by breaking and reforming bonds?” he asked, sounding thoughtful.  
  
“Just rearranging, actually.” I shrugged carefully. “The advantage of working with metal.”  
  
“But you can affect other materials.” That wasn’t really a question, but then he had seen me disintegrate the cushion. “Anything, uh, non-living I think you said?”  
  
I guessed I had said that, hadn’t I? Possibly not wise but, well, these were my team mates now. I guessed it was okay.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“So, does that mean you can affect dead things?” Clockblocker wanted to know.  
  
Why was I not surprised that was the thing he’d seized on?  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“What, seriously?” Kid Win sounded a little disturbed. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.  
  
“Do we even want to know how you found that out?” Clockblocker asked, sounding utterly fascinated. I didn’t know what the fuck he was expecting, but I could only assume he was going to be disappointed with the fairly prosaic truth.  
  
“Because I eat.” I very ostensibly checked my watch. “Anyway, isn’t it about time we got to the briefing?”  
  
There was still plenty of time, technically, but I'd rather be early than late.  
  
“New Girl’s keen,” Clockblocker said to Kid Win, before ambling over towards me. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn better once you’ve been to a few of these briefings.”  
  
He reached out a hand, and the next thing I knew, I had him in a wrist lock, poised to-  
  
No. No! Fuck! What was I doing?  
  
“Hey! Ow!” Clockblocker said. “What the hell?”  
  
Shit!  
  
I let him go, and he took a couple of steps away, rubbing at his wrist as he turned to face me. I assumed he was exaggerating for effect. I’d barely even touched him before letting him go.  
  
“Sorry,” I said, still feeling like I was practically vibrating with the need to hit someone, unable to make myself stand the fuck down.  
  
There was movement in my peripheral vision: Kid Win. I shifted so I could keep my eyes on both of them, very fucking aware that I was outnumbered two to one if they decided to retaliate, and that Clockblocker only needed to make contact in order to freeze me where I stood.  
  
Somewhat belatedly, it occurred to me to wonder why he hadn’t just done that.  
  
“I was just going to pat you patronisingly on the head,” Clockblocker said, sounding a little aggrieved. But, to my surprise, not actually angry. “Yeah, it was kind of a dick move, but you didn’t have to use your ninja skills on me.”  
  
“Really not a fan of people putting their hands on me,” I told him, my voice tight. “How about, you don’t do that again, and I…” I only just managed to stop myself finishing that sentence with ‘don’t break your fucking wrist.’ “I’ll try to avoid putting you in any more wrist locks.”  
  
He was quiet for a moment, maybe studying me, or thinking it over, or contemplating trying to teach me a lesson, or who the fuck knew what. But then he nodded.  
  
“Deal,” he said, and I was a little taken aback at how cheerful he sounded. I wasn’t sure I would ever figure this guy out.  
  
“Let’s get to the briefing,” Kid Win said, sounding relieved.  
  
“Be there in a second,” I told him. “I just want to grab a notebook and pen.”  
  
“You really are keen.” Clockblocker sounded amused. Like we were just continuing the earlier conversation. Like I hadn’t just put him in a wrist lock and very fucking nearly done a whole lot worse. (Like I hadn’t freaked out like an idiot.) “No one’s going to quiz you, you know.”  
  
“Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it,” I said.  
  
“See you there,” Kid Win said. There was a strange, almost wary note on his voice that I couldn’t quite figure out, but I assumed it didn’t mean anything good. Fucking great. I’d probably managed to piss off at least one of my new team mates, and it wasn’t even the one I’d put in a wrist lock! I wondered if this meant I’d have to watch my back for a while.  
  
I nodded and ducked into my room, taking a few moments to catch my breath (and make my metal move over my skin, losing myself a little in its reassuring responsiveness).  
  
Okay. Okay, I could do this.  
  
Although I did have a brief moment of doubt when I stepped back out and found Clockblocker waiting for me.  
  
“I’m pretty sure I can find the way by myself,” I said after a moment, trying unsuccessfully to keep my tone light.  
  
(Was this where he got payback for what I’d just done to him? What was he going to do to me?)  
  
“I’m sure you can,” he said, and his tone actually was light. It turned serious, however, with his next words. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, Astrid.”  
  
He… What?  
  
“What?” I said aloud, deeply confused.  
  
He sighed. “I do stupid shit without thinking about it sometimes. Trying to pat you on the head was one of those stupid things. I’ll try to be more careful in future, but feel free to tell me if I do something that makes you uncomfortable.” He paused there, as if maybe giving me the chance to respond, but I had absolutely no fucking clue what to say. “Preferably before you nearly break my wrist,” he added, sounding wryly amused.  
  
I snorted at that.  
  
“Trust me, I wasn’t anywhere close to breaking your wrist,” I told him.  
  
“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, and I had the strange idea that he might have actually been smiling under his mask, even though I had no fucking clue why. “So, is my apology accepted?”  
  
“Sure,” I said helplessly, not knowing what else to say. I felt completely and utterly lost right now. Maybe it would be easier if I could see his face. Or, then again, maybe it wouldn’t. Dismally, I wondered if I’d ever manage to figure **any** of these people out.  
  
Honestly, it would almost have been easier if he’d just tried to beat the shit out of me. At least I knew how to deal with that.  
  
There was a more pressing matter I was worried about, though. I took a deep breath, and asked: “Are you going to tell Aegis? About me putting you in a wrist lock?”  
  
“Hell no,” Clockblocker said, more firmly than I would’ve expected. “He’d just tell me I had it coming. And then he’d lecture me, at length, about the importance of recognising boundaries and respecting other people’s personal space.” He gave a fake, exaggerated shudder. “Life is too short for that shit.”  
  
Even though I told myself I couldn’t necessarily believe him, that he could just be lulling me into a false sense of security before dropping me in it with the team leader, I found myself relaxing a little.  
  
(I really did not want to end up being disciplined on my first day as a Ward.)  
  
Unfortunately, the easing of that tension just made me uncomfortably aware of how fucking awkward this was. I checked my watch and started moving, walking past Clockblocker as if it didn’t make the skin between my shoulder blades itch to have him at my back.  
  
“Well, I’m going to the briefing,” I said over my shoulder. “I don’t want to be late on my first day.”  
  
He laughed as he fell into step with me.  
  
“You need to relax, New Girl.” His voice took on that sly, insinuating tone again. “But I bet I know just the thing to help you unwind.”  
  
My face felt like it was on fire. I turned to glare at him.  
  
“Fuck off, Clockblocker,” I growled.  
  
“What?” he said, sounding like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I was talking about computer games. I don’t know what **you** were thinking, but it sounds like someone needs to get her mind out of the gutter.” I almost choked. “Anyway,” he continued, and I might not have been able to see his face, but from the sound of his voice I bet he had the most shit-eating grin right about now. “Come on, New Girl. We need to get to that briefing.”  
  
And, while I was still spluttering, he took the opportunity to press on ahead, leaving me unable to do anything but glare murderously at his back as I followed along in his wake.  
  
Fucking **asshole**.  
  
Still, there was one good thing. I was so goddamned furious at Clockblocker that I almost didn’t have any energy left over to be worried about the upcoming ‘team meet and greet thing’ Aegis had talked about.  
  
After all, how bad could it possibly be?


	17. Agoraphobia 2.05

When I emerged out into the main part of the Hub, most of the other Wards had already gathered near the large screen. Kid Win and Gallant were moving the sofa out of the way, while Vista was arranging the chairs into a neat semicircle facing the screen.  
  
“Cant’t you just leave the sofa where it is?” Clockblocker asked as he drew near. “It’s much comfier than the chairs.”  
  
“I think Aegis would prefer if we at least try to act in a vaguely professional manner,” Gallant observed dryly. “And ‘professional’ is not precisely the first word that comes to mind when anyone sees you sprawling on the sofa.”  
  
“He’s just trying to impress the new girl,” Clockblocker said, sounding amused. He looked over at me as I approached, clearly wanting to see my reaction. I ignored the fucker. Seriously, I was almost pissed off enough to hope that Aegis heard his comments and disciplined the shit out of him for his disrespect.  
  
Almost, but not quite.  
  
“Hi,” I said to Gallant and Vista. I hoped I didn’t look and sound as uncertain as I felt.  
  
“Hi,” Vista echoed, nodding at me in a businesslike manner.  
  
“Hello, Astrid,” Gallant said, smiling like he was genuinely pleased to see me. “Welcome to the team. I’m glad you decided to join us.”  
  
I shrugged (and then regretted it), feeling a little awkward.  
  
“I’d pretty much already made up my mind,” I said. “But thanks.”  
  
I hesitated a moment, and then started helping Vista set out the chairs. She gave me a small smile, which I returned somewhat awkwardly.  
  
“Are you settling in alright? Have you chosen a room yet?” Gallant asked.  
  
“Yes and yes, thank you,” I replied.  
  
“Kid Win and I helped,” Clockblocker said cheerfully, and I had to resist the urge to glare daggers at him.  
  
“I’m not sure I’d say **you** helped,” I muttered, and then made myself give Kid Win a smile. “But at least some of the company was pleasant.”  
  
Kid Win smiled back at me, showing no trace of his earlier wariness. Did that mean he wasn’t pissed off at me after all? Or was he just good at hiding it?  
  
“And yet **I’m** the one you were having **thoughts** about,” Clockblocker said slyly.  
  
I spluttered, setting the chair I was holding down a little bit harder than I meant to as I whirled around to face him, my face flushing crimson despite my best efforts to stop it.  
  
God-fucking-dammit!  
  
Of all the things I’d had to inherit from one or both of the biological parents I’d never known, why the fuck did I have to get a propensity for blushing? It made it really fucking hard to hide it when I got embarrassed or flustered. And Clockblocker was apparently pretty goddamn talented at flustering me.  
  
 **Asshole**.  
  
“Clockblocker,” I ground out, really fucking proud of myself for using my words and not my fists. Despite how much I really, really, **really** wanted to smack the fucker silly right about now. “I very strongly suggest you drop that utterly asinine and completely fucking erroneous line of speculation. Right fucking **yesterday**.”  
  
“Or what?” he asked, sounding distinctly less than intimidated. If anything, he just sounded curious. And really fucking amused. The bastard. “You’ll use your ninja skills on me again?”  
  
Motherfucker! He’d said he wasn’t going to **say** anything!  
  
Well, I amended, he’d said he wasn’t going to say anything to Aegis. But telling the rest of the fucking team was almost as bad. The more people who knew, the greater the chance that it would get back to the team leader.  
  
(The greater the chance that I’d end up in the basement. Or whatever served the same purpose for the Wards.)  
  
Well, shit.  
  
“Ninja skills?” Vista asked, before I could reply. Given that my reply had even odds of consisting of swearing, violence, or some combination of the two, the interruption was probably a good thing.  
  
Kid Win, having apparently finished helping Gallant with the sofa, wandered over and elbowed Clockblocker in the side.  
  
“This idiot tried to pat Astrid on the head. As he does when he’s trying to be particularly patronising. She put him in a wrist-lock.” He grinned. “It was kind of cool, actually.”  
  
Okay, ‘cool’ was not the descriptor I would’ve expected based on his reaction earlier. Had I really misread him that much?  
  
Christ, I sucked at this social malarkey.  
  
“It **was** cool,” Clockblocker agreed, startling me even more than Kid Win just had. “Little bit excessive though, I feel.”  
  
“I told you,” I said, my words emerging through gritted teeth. “Really not a fan of people putting their hands on me.”  
  
Excessive, my left tit! I’d show the little shit ‘excessive’ if he wasn’t careful.  
  
“I don’t know,” Vista said. “It sounds eminently reasonable to me. Maybe I’ll do the same thing next time you try to pat **me** on the head.”  
  
“See what you’ve started?” Clockblocker told me, mock-indignantly. At least, I thought it was only mock-indignation. It was really fucking hard to tell with him. “You’re obviously a bad influence, New Girl. Corrupting Vista. Turning the rest of the team against me.” He shook his head, his voice turning slyly suggestive again as he continued. “There **are** easier ways to get me alone, you know.”  
  
I may or may not have growled as I stepped towards him. I know for damn sure I clenched my fists. But before I could say — or, more likely, do — anything that at least one of us might regret, Gallant was there, stepping in between us. He came very fucking close to getting hit for his trouble, but somehow I managed to dial it back.  
  
“Clockblocker,” Gallant said, his voice tight with what seemed like the closest thing to anger I’d seen from him. He hadn’t even sounded this pissed off when Clockblocker had been needling him about his love life. “How about you stop tormenting Astrid? You are not precisely covering yourself in glory here.”  
  
“I thought that was your job,” Clockblocker fired back, somewhat mystifyingly. Kid Win smirked briefly, and then clearly banished the expression with a clear effort. Vista just glared like she was trying to spontaneously develop the power to set Clockblocker on fire just by wishing really, really hard. I was almost disappointed when she didn’t succeed.  
  
For his part, Gallant clipped Clockblocker lightly around the ear. (Even with the power armour, I doubted it would even leave a mark, let alone actually bruise. I guessed he was just reminding his team mate that he could have done so much worse if he chose.) “Knock it off,” he said firmly. “I mean it.”  
  
“You’re no fun,” Clockblocker pouted.  
  
Gallant ignored him, turning to face me.  
  
“I’m really sorry about him,” he said, giving me a rueful smile. “Please don’t judge the rest of us by his behaviour. Or, misbehaviour, rather.”  
  
I took a deep breath, and tried to make myself stand down. It was really fucking hard, but somehow I managed it.  
  
“I won’t, don’t worry,” I assured him. Clockblocker aside, the rest of the team had been at minimum inoffensive so far, and I actively liked Gallant. Maybe Vista, too. I only hoped Clockblocker managed to learn some goddamn self restraint before I forgot why I was even trying to hold my temper in check.  
  
“Good,” Gallant said, smiling.  
  
Clockblocker, perhaps belatedly gaining some wisdom, remained silent.  
  
It was about fucking time.  
  
Vista and I finished organising the chairs. It didn’t take us long — we’d almost finished before Clockblocker’s little interruption had stopped me in my tracks. When we were done, I waited a moment to see what the others did before seating myself in the front row. Kid Win and Clockblocker sat a couple of rows back, immediately starting to converse intently about what sounded like a computer game of some kind. Gallant and Vista joined me on the front row. I was glad when Gallant proceeded to ask Vista about her school day. I was really not feeling in a conversational mood right about now. I welcomed the chance to try to regain some of my fucking equilibrium. Although maybe that should be ‘gain’ and not ‘regain’. God knew it felt like I’d been reeling ever since my goddam trigger event. Maybe, if I was honest, since even before that.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I might have slept reasonably well last night for the first time in over a week, but I just felt so tired all of a sudden.  
  
Just as I was thinking that, Aegis emerged from somewhere deeper in the Wards HQ. I started to get to my feet, but a quick glance around showed that I seemed to be the only one, so I instead just sat up straighter in my chair.  
  
(I wasn’t entirely sure why my pulse rate suddenly picked up, or why it felt a little hard to breathe in here. I ignored the sensations as best as I could.)  
  
“Hello, everyone,” Aegis said. There was a general chorus of greetings from the rest of the team. I was a little startled that mine was the only:  
  
“Hello, Sir.”  
  
Aegis didn’t seem particularly fazed by the informality, though. He had said that they didn’t tend to be formal, but I hadn’t quite realised this was what he meant. Was this typical, or had he them given permission to be more casual, perhaps as part of some attempt to put me at my ease? If the latter, it was backfiring really fucking spectacularly. I felt supremely weirded out.  
  
Aegis smiled at me.  
  
(My throat felt dry for some reason, and I resisted the urge to swallow as he loomed over me. Apropos of nothing, I wondered somewhat uneasily just how strong he really was.)  
  
“Did you get your room sorted out, Astrid?” he asked.  
  
I nodded.  
  
“Yes, thank you, Sir.” I tried to keep my voice and body language as neutral as I could.  
  
His lips pressed together as if he was frowning (I had to suppress a flinch for no fucking reason at all that I could see), but then he recovered his smile.  
  
“Good,” he said, nodding. “I know the rooms are a little cramped, but we can move the walls around a bit to make it a little bigger. And you are, of course, welcome to decorate it any way you want.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said again, wishing fervently that he’d move on to the briefing. This whole conversation was putting me right on edge, and I had no fucking idea why. It hadn’t been this bad up in the canteen. Maybe it was the fact that the rest of the team were here; that they would know if I fucked up (and got myself disciplined).  
  
“What are you doing?” Clockblocker interjected, his mock-whisper filled with mock-horror. “You can’t show him that kind of respect. He’ll get a taste for it! He might even start expecting it from the rest of us.”  
  
My eyes flew wide, and I was so shocked I couldn’t even think for a moment. What the fuck was Clockblocker doing? What he **trying** to get himself disciplined? I mean, he might be a gigantic flaming asshole, and I might have been tempted to wish Aegis had overheard him earlier, but I wasn’t being serious. I didn’t actually want him to be punished, no matter how much he’d pissed me off.  
  
I knew he seemed to be irreverent as fuck when it was just the rest of us, but I’d assumed he would at least make some attempt to dial it back when the team leader was around.  
  
Apparently not.  
  
Jesus fucking Christ. Was he some kind of masochist?  
  
I was so stunned that I almost missed Aegis’ reply.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he said dryly. “I would never expect that from you, Clockblocker.”  
  
“Thank God.” Clockblocker’s voice was still full of exaggerated horror. “Can you even imagine?”  
  
Aegis just ignored him, glancing around the room.  
  
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that anyone’s heard anything from Shadow Stalker,” he sighed, the sentence not quite a question.  
  
“You have to ask?” Vista muttered, sounding… Jesus. I’d never heard so much contempt from a twelve-year old before. (Except Lance and me at that age, maybe, when we’d been trying to provoke each other.) It really was quite impressive. I was almost shocked that she, at least, didn’t call Aegis ‘Sir’. She seemed to take everything so very seriously.  
  
I guessed he really was lenient with his team, at least in some ways.  
  
(Or this was just an attempt to lull me into a false sense of security, and when I tried to behave in the same way, he’d put me in my place. I just couldn’t risk it. I needed to gather more data on how this team worked. If it even worked. Their dynamic certainly felt pretty fucking alien right now. Wrong, even.)  
  
(Fuck, I wished I was better with people.)  
  
“We’ll give her a few more minutes before starting,” Aegis said, sounding a little resigned. I could only assume he didn’t want to make a fuss in front of the new girl. He’d undoubtedly be having a quiet word with his errant subordinate later, though.  
  
(I felt really fucking anxious all of a sudden and I wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t like I even knew the girl, beyond having a distant sort of respect for her work at Winslow. I guessed I was just on edge right now. It had been a really fucking crazy couple of days.)  
  
For one horrible moment, I thought that Aegis might actually try to make conversation with me, but instead he turned to Gallant and started talking about what sounded like the follow up to an incident of some kind on Gallant’s last patrol. I tried not to eavesdrop shamelessly but, well, they were right there. Not that it meant much to me anyway. Kid Win and Clockblocker resumed their conversation about computer games. Vista and I just sat there in silence, although I thought I saw her giving me surreptitious glances every now and then. I wondered what she was thinking.  
  
After seven — I checked — really fucking awkward minutes (at least, they were for me), I heard the one of the elevators whir to life.  
  
“Finally,” Aegis muttered.  
  
I wasn’t sure if I was just imagining the sudden spike of tension in the room. It felt pretty fucking real to me, though. Either way, I just kept very still and hoped I didn’t do anything to attract Aegis’ (wrath) attention while he was so clearly already pissed off.  
  
(It was still hard to breathe in here, and even with my desire to stay as still as possible and not to attract attention, I had to work really goddamn hard to suppress the urge to shift restlessly in my seat. Jesus fuck; what the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t usually quite **this** jittery. I guessed I was still more on edge than I’d realised.)  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Gallant glance my way. Or he could have been looking over towards the entrance, I guessed. I wasn’t sure. I certainly found my own gaze turning that direction, curious to get my first glimpse of the only team mate I hadn’t yet encountered.  
  
I didn’t have to wait long.  
  
Shadow Stalker’s costume consisted of a dark trench coat over an armoured body suit with a full face mask, and it covered her from head to toe. All I could tell about her for sure was that she was shorter than me, athletically built, and that she moved like she knew how to handle herself in a fight. Given her reputation, that last part didn’t surprise me in the slightest. What did surprise me was that she strolled in without so much as a by your leave. Not only did she not even bother to offer some kind of explanation for her tardiness, she didn’t spare so much as the slightest glance or gesture in acknowledgement of the team fucking **leader** who was practically radiating annoyance in her direction. All she did was stroll over to take a seat like she had all the time in the goddamn world.  
  
What. The. Fuck?  
  
Anyway, she actually took two seats; lounging insouciantly on one while putting her feet up on the other. That, honestly, was pretty fucking impressive given that the chairs were of the type that didn’t really facilitate any position other than bolt upright.  
  
“So glad you could finally join us, Shadow Stalker,” Aegis said, with cutting sarcasm. She just grunted. Aegis’ jaw tensed visibly, his hands twitching like they wanted to curl into fists (I had to suppress another flinch), but he didn’t press the issue. I assumed he was going to talk to her privately, after the briefing. Which was some good news, at least: apparently he didn’t discipline his subordinates publicly. Or, at least, not on this occasion. “Anyway,” he said, turning his attention to the group as a whole. Now that we can **finally** get started, our first order of business is to welcome a new team member.” He smiled at me. I looked uncertainly back at him. “Astrid, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”  
  
My mind went completely blank.  
  
“I’m not sure there’s really much to say, Sir,” I said awkwardly, stalling for time. I really fucking hated being put on the spot like this. (I hoped he wasn’t going to be too annoyed at me for fucking this up.)  
  
“I’m sure that isn’t true,” he said. (Was that a warning note in his voice?) I felt more and more like a deer in headlights, unable to think of a single goddamn thing to say that didn’t begin with: ‘Well, my dad’s a nazi super villain…’  
  
“Why don’t you tell us about your power?” Gallant prompted, and I seized upon that like the lifeline it was.  
  
“Right.” I turned a little so I was addressing the team as a whole, rather than just Aegis. (I couldn’t look at him right now. Something about his steady regard just put me right the fuck on edge.) “Um, well, some of you have already seen it, but I’m a matter manipulator. Thinker/Striker, I guess. I can sense and manipulate the molecular structure of anything I touch. Anything non-living, that is.”  
  
“I’m sure that will come in handy,” Aegis said, in what I thought was supposed to be a reassuring tone. (I couldn’t help thinking that it actually came off as just a tad patronising. And then I immediately felt guilty for thinking such a thing.) He started to say something else, but Clockblocker blithely talked right over him.  
  
“Don’t forget disintegrating things with the power of your mind,” he called out, talking right over the team leader.  
  
“I count that under manipulating,” I told him, trying not to cringe at the thought of just how pissed off Aegis must be right now. Between Shadow Stalker and Clockblocker, he must be just about spitting nails.  
  
“Well, I’m sure we’ll get to see it in action soon enough,” Aegis told me, still with that reassuring (patronising) note in his voice. I guessed he must have pretty good self-control not to be obviously displaying his anger. (I knew it was there, though. I just knew it.) Something told me that, with this particular group, he’d need all the self-control he could get.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said quietly, not knowing what the fuck else to say.  
  
Please let him move on. **Please**.  
  
“Alright,” Aegis said. “Let’s move on to this week’s patrol schedules.”  
  
Oh, thank **fuck**.  
  
I guessed this didn’t really apply to me — not yet, anyway — but I scribbled down a few notes about the structure and timings of the patrols anyway. It couldn’t hurt to have the information, after all.  
  
“New Girl’s aiming to be teacher’s pet,” Clockblocker technically whispered. Technically. I ignored him, or tried to. Honestly, I was just proud of myself for managing not to grit my teeth. And resisting the urge to throw something at my team mate’s head. Fortunately, Aegis didn’t seem to hear. (Unless he was just storing it all up for a subsequent private talk with Clockblocker.)  
  
Clockblocker kept up with the occasional not nearly sotto voce enough remarks throughout the rest of the briefing, although I wasn’t the only target. Honestly, it seemed like no one was immune, not the people on his team — not even the fucking ‘glorious leader,’ as he apparently referred to Aegis — and not the subjects of the briefing.  
  
Like the various cape threats he really should be assessing properly, rather than just considering how best he could mock them.  
  
I, for one, took copious notes, and I honestly couldn’t believe that no one else was doing so. This was fucking important shit. Sure, maybe the information was available elsewhere, but I certainly found it memorisation easier if I at least went through the motions of taking notes. Even if my notes weren’t actually all that great. (And if I was honest, between one thing and another, I was so distracted and on edge that I’d be satisfied if they were merely legible.)  
  
Unfortunately, Clockblocker’s amusement at my expense seemed to be directly proportional to the number of notes I took, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore him. Shit, if he kept this up, **Aegis** was going to hear him. To distract myself, I glanced over at Shadow Stalker… and froze, my eyes widening.  
  
She’d pulled out her phone and was blatantly, unashamedly, texting away on it. Or perhaps playing a game. I honestly wasn’t sure which. Either way, it was really fucking obvious. I mean, at least Clockblocker was making an attempt to keep his running commentary quiet, but this? No, this level of sheer, unmitigated disrespect **had** to be deliberate. No one was that fucking clueless. She was clearly and with malice aforethought trying to provoke Aegis into some kind of reaction.  
  
I just didn’t have a fucking clue why.  
  
And, honestly, I felt kind of conflicted about it. On the one hand, I despised that kind of pointless insubordination. How the fuck could a commander keep control of his squad if one of them was blatantly disrespecting him? She was risking fucking up the whole team dynamic for the sake of making some stupid goddamn point.  
  
On the other hand, though…  
  
Damn.  
  
I had to admire the sheer lack of fucks she had to give.  
  
And I really (envied) admired the courage it must have taken to maintain that kind of defiance in the face of certain punishment. Because surely it was only a matter of time now…  
  
Aegis paced back and forth as he continued the briefing, sending increasingly irritated glances in Shadow Stalker’s direction. His hands twitched every now and then, and he was as tense as a coiled spring.  
  
(I felt slightly sick, my heart thudding in my chest like a drum.)  
  
Without warning, Aegis suddenly turned on his heel and strode towards Shadow Stalker. Metal stirred without my conscious volition, starting to reach towards him in some kind useless attempt to do… **something**. He was a brute; it wasn’t as though he couldn’t rip through anything I could throw at him. With an effort, I returned my metal to its proper place.  
  
Maybe it wasn’t that bad. Not yet.  
  
My breath caught in my throat as he loomed over her, the threat of violence clear in his posture.  
  
“Am I boring you, Shadow Stalker?” he practically growled.  
  
(‘Am I boring you, **girl**?’)  
  
It felt like the walls were closing in; like there was a pressure on my throat and I just couldn’t get enough air.  
  
“Yeah, kinda,” she drawled, not even looking up.  
  
No, I thought, willing her to hear, somehow, no matter how impossible it was. Don’t do this. Don’t push him like this, not in front of us. He can’t let that kind of insubordination stand, not with witnesses. If you don’t back down, he’s going to have to make an example of you.  
  
Aegis didn’t reply right away, audibly sucking in a breath. It still felt like I was holding mine; like I was frozen in place. I didn’t want to see this, but I couldn’t look away.  
  
“I guess I’ll have to find something to occupy you, then,” he ground out.  
  
(‘I suppose I’ll just have to focus your attention somehow.’)  
  
“Whatever,” she said, shrugging.  
  
How the fuck could she be so casual right now? Didn’t she realise that he was just on the verge of snapping? Did she not even care that he was going to discipline her in front of the whole goddamn team?  
  
Aegis moved slightly and **I** flinched. Even though he was nowhere near me. Even though all his attention was focused on Shadow Stalker right now. God, I really was pathetic. I needed to get it together. I… I needed to **do** something. Even if she deserved to be punished for what she’d done, I couldn’t just stand by and let this happen. Not without at least trying to stop it. I **wouldn’t**.  
  
I had to do something.  
  
(Even if all I managed to do in the end was share her fate.)  
  
But what the fuck could I do?  
  
“Thank you for volunteering to take console duty for all your shifts this week,” he said, while I frantically tried to figure out how I might head off the inevitable.  
  
“What? No!” Shadow Stalker did look up then. Her mask might have concealed her expression, but I figured I could make a pretty good guess from her tone as to the fury that must have been contained within. “You can’t take me off patrol.”  
  
“If you want to make it two weeks, just keep talking.”  
  
(‘You do not want to test my patience, girl.’)  
  
Aegis shifted position again, and I knew that this was it; that he was going to hurt her and I wouldn’t be able to do anything but watch, and before I’d even really thought this through I was raising my hand.  
  
“Sir?” I said, quietly, and I had a sudden panic that I’d spoken too quietly; that he couldn’t hear me. God knew I could barely hear myself over the pounding in my ears.  
  
Aegis paused (in the act of lashing out at Shadow Stalker?), and turned to face me.  
  
“Yes, Astrid?” he said, and his tone of voice made me think of the calm before the storm.  
  
My throat was as dry as the desert, but I somehow managed to find my voice to continue.  
  
“I think I know who that cape is, Sir,” I said, indicating the blurred female figure on the screen. Before the interruption (before he’d decided to discipline Shadow Stalker for her wilful disrespect), he’d been briefing us on some new capes the Empire seemed to have added to its ranks. Details were sparse, though, and for this latest one, all they really had was a blurry photo of a woman in a white, grey and green costume. But I’d felt a sense of nagging familiarity the moment Aegis had put the photo up on the screen, and the memory had suddenly clicked into place.  
  
(Desperation, I supposed, was a hell of a motivating force.)  
  
“You do?” he said, sounding surprised.  
  
(Had it worked? Had I distracted him from Shadow Stalker?)  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I confirmed. “She goes by the name Edelweiss. Cold-based powers, but I’m afraid I don’t know the details.”  
  
“She named herself after a flower?” Kid Win asked, sounding surprised.  
  
“In the original German, it literally means noble white,” I said, not even trying to conceal the contempt I felt for the Empire cape. “Sounds like exactly the kind of name a nazi bitch would choose.” With a start, I remembered where I was. “Uh, sorry, Sir,” I said to Aegis. (I really hoped I hadn’t made him angry.)  
  
“That’s alright,” he said, sounding almost amused, before continuing in a more serious tone. “But how do you know this? And are you sure?”  
  
Well, shit. I could hardly tell him that Lance got her name and description from his Empire friends, and then Dad had some of his men dig up information about her powers. And I definitely couldn’t tell him that we’d been gathering intel on the Empire and their capes for the past two years as part of our fucking **mission**.  
  
But I needed to tell him something.  
  
“The Empire has a significant presence in my school, Sir,” I said. “And sometimes their members talk more than they should.” Not technically a lie. “However, I’m afraid it’s essentially hearsay.” I was reasonably certain it was true, but I couldn’t really say that without saying why.  
  
“Well, it’s still better that nothing. I’ll make a note in the file,” Aegis said, and smiled at me. “Good work, Astrid.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, sounding a little more uncertain than I would like.  
  
It felt like my heart was in my mouth as I waited to see whether I’d succeeded in distracting him from disciplining Shadow Stalker.  
  
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s move on.”  
  
Oh, thank fuck.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Clockblocker said. “New Girl, I’ve got to know: what’s the deal with the whole ‘Sir’ thing? Because it’s really starting to freak me the hell out.”  
  
I glanced around, a little startled to realise that everyone was looking at me. Even Shadow Stalker, I thought, although it was hard to be sure with her mask. More importantly, even Aegis. I waited hopefully for him to tell Clockblocker that this wasn’t relevant to anything at all, but he… didn’t.  
  
I guessed that meant he was also interested in the answer to that question.  
  
Well, shit.  
  
I sighed softly to myself. Since Clockblocker was the one asking the question, I turned to address my answer to him.  
  
“My dad’s ex-military,” I told him, which was true enough as far as it went, even if it didn’t go quite far enough. “He raised me and my brother to respect the chain of command, that’s all.”  
  
“The chain of command?” Clockblocker scoffed. “What, was that the chain he used to beat you with so you understood who was in command?”  
  
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, driving the air from my lungs, making me flinch before I could even think about suppressing the reaction. My eyes felt like they were as wide as saucers, and there was a roaring in my ears like the distant sound of thunder.  
  
While I reeled in shock, the words that ran through my mind, incongruously, were: Dad never actually beat me with a chain.  
  
“Ow!” Clockblocker exclaimed suddenly, and I realised belatedly that, while I’d been struggling futilely to recover my equilibrium, both Vista and Kid Win had both thwacked him around the head; Vista using her power to get close enough do so. I didn’t think either of them had been particularly gentle about it. Vista whispered something in his ear, now, her voice low and fierce, but I couldn’t make out the words. Whatever it was, it had a noticeable effect on Clockblocker, who twitched in his seat and muttered. “Oh, shit.” He turned towards me. “I’m really sorry,” he said, sounding much more subdued that I would’ve expected given his seemingly boundless ebullience up until now. “That was just a quote I heard somewhere. I didn’t mean anything by it, honest.”  
  
I had to force myself to take a breath, feeling completely and utterly sick to my stomach. They’d all seen me react. They’d all seen my weakness.  
  
(I felt so fucking humiliated.)  
  
I was so fucking furious right now.  
  
I didn’t need anybody’s goddamn pity. I wasn’t a fucking victim. How fucking **dare** he? How dare they all?  
  
Suddenly, what I wanted more than anything in the whole wide world was to make someone bleed for making me feel like this. I wanted to make **him** bleed. And pretty much the only thing that kept me in check was the fact that Aegis was right there.  
  
Aegis cleared his throat now, looking really fucking awkward for some reason as he said. “Right, that’s pretty much the end of the briefing. Astrid, I just wanted to quickly go over what you can expect in terms of training. First of all-“  
  
“How long do you think it’s going to take for her not to be completely useless?” Shadow Stalker cut in, a sneer in her voice. “At least by this team’s pitiful standards?”  
  
Oh, that utter fucking **cunt**!  
  
“Actually,” I said, my voice hard as I fixed her with a glare that could curdle milk. “I already know how to fight.”  
  
“Sure you do,” she sniffed dismissively.  
  
Aegis started to say something, but I just spoke over him, not even caring whether or not he disciplined me for it. I was so fucking **furious** I could barely even think straight.  
  
I bared my teeth at Shadow Stalker in what was only very technically a smile. “Want to spar when we’re done here?” I flicked my gaze over her with deliberate contempt. “If you can drag yourself away from your phone that long.”  
  
I wanted to hit someone so fucking badly right now. It was almost a physical ache, this desire for violence that surged inside me like a tidal wave. I **needed** to hurt someone, and this mouthy bitch more than fit the bill.  
  
(I couldn’t believe I’d actually been worried about her. Shit, I should have just left Aegis to it.)  
  
She looked at me for a long moment, long enough that I wished I could see her face, so I at least had a chance of figuring out what was going through her head. After what felt like an eternity, but which could only have been a couple of seconds, she shrugged.  
  
“Sure,” she said. “You want a beating that badly, who am I to stand in your way?”  
  
It was only a supreme effort of will that stopped me lunging for her right then and there.  
  
“I’m not entirely sure this is wise,” said Aegis, sounding strangely uncertain as he looked back and forth between the two of us.  
  
No. He couldn’t forbid it. He **couldn’t**. (Because then I’d have to disobey a direct order and I’d end up being disciplined for it, and I might be too mad to care right now, but I knew for sure I was going to care about that later.)  
  
“I know what I’m doing, Sir,” I tried to reassure him. “I’ve been training for a long time and I really do know how to fight.”  
  
He still didn’t seem convinced.  
  
“What’s the matter, Aegis?” Shadow Stalker asked, sounding amused. “Worried I’ll break the new girl?”  
  
I snorted at that.  
  
“I don’t break easily,” I told her, and I didn’t even try to keep the simmering rage out of my voice.  
  
“I guess we’ll see about that,” she said lightly.  
  
Oh, I really, really, **really** wanted to smash her stupid fucking smug face in.  
  
Aegis looked to Gallant, of all people, who gave a small shrug. I didn’t know what that was about, and at the moment I didn’t much care. What I did care about was that Aegis took a breath and said:  
  
“Fine. A **friendly** sparring match. Both of you take it easy on each other. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said readily. Understand? Sure. Agree? Hmm… Not so much. I guessed we’d just have to see how it went. But I very strongly suspected that this was going to be pretty fucking far from ‘friendly.’  
  
And that was perfectly fine with me.  
  
“Shadow Stalker?” he said sharply, after a moment.  
  
“Yeah, whatever,” she said, shrugging.  
  
“That’ll have to do, I suppose.” It sounded like those words were addressed more to himself than to us, so I didn’t respond. “Right,” he continued, recovering something of his businesslike air. “As I was saying…”  
  
He went on to talk about the various training courses I’d be working through over the next few weeks, along with shadowing someone on console duty for three nights a week. I tried to tear my thoughts away from Shadow Stalker and our upcoming ‘friendly’ sparring match to pay attention to what Aegis was telling me. I was mostly successful. I even managed to take some notes. It sounded like I was going to have a busy few weeks, but I was fine with that. It should be interesting.  
  
And, when everyone concerned was satisfied that I was going to be more of an asset than a liability out in the field, I’d finally be allowed out on patrol. I was looking forward to it.  
  
(I had to squash down the feelings of trepidation at the thought of being outside where my father could find me.)  
  
That was apparently the last item on the agenda, for when Aegis had finished his summary, he declared the briefing over.  
  
“Now,” he said, his tone lightening somewhat. “I believe it’s time for introductions.”  
  
“Sir?” I asked, confused. Hadn’t we already done that?  
  
In lieu of answering, he reached up and pulled off his helmet, revealing himself to be a hispanic-looking guy around Lance’s age, with long black hair.  
  
(Was that why I felt so fucking on edge and antsy around him? His race? God, I hoped not. I really fucking thought — hoped — that I’d managed to more or less break myself of my father’s poison. I knew it was a work in progress, that I’d likely be struggling with it for the rest of my life, but goddammit! I tried so damn **hard**. When was it going to be enough?)  
  
(But there was no point in whining. If my unease around Aegis really was some sort of holdover from my upbringing, from before I’d started to question everything I thought I knew, then I’d just have to try even harder not to let it be a problem.)  
  
(I would get past this. I would. I was going to be better.)  
  
“I’m Carlos,” he told me, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you, Astrid.”  
  
Shadow Stalker got to her feet and started striding away. “I’m going to the gym,” she told me. “Come find me when you’re done with all the kumbaya shit. Unless you decide to chicken out.”  
  
“I’ll be there,” I said, bristling.  
  
Aegis glared at her departing back (I had to resist the urge to flinch away from his anger), but then sighed, turning back to me with a rueful smile.  
  
“I’d like to say she’s not always like that but, well, I’m afraid it’s not untypical behaviour for her. Just… It’s okay if you change your mind, about sparring. No one would think less of you for it, especially under the present circumstances.”  
  
He sounded so sympathetic, so fucking **understanding** that, team leader or not, I just wanted to punch him in the face. Slice him up, maybe; anything to leave a goddamn mark. Was he fucking serious? How was that even close to true? Maybe **he** wouldn’t think less of me, but then it was pretty fucking clear he already thought I was pathetic and weak. A fucking **victim**. But **I** sure as shit would think less of me for backing out, and I was certain Shadow Stalker was the same.  
  
No. Even if I wanted to — which I definitely didn’t — backing down was not an option.  
  
“It’ll be fine, Sir,” I said, my words emerging a little clipped and brusque despite my best efforts. I thought about attempting a smile, but thought it was more likely to emerge as a snarl. Somehow, I doubted it would help matters. I did make an effort to lighten my tone, however, as I continued. “Anyway, I’ve been sitting down for much of the day. I think it’ll do me good to do something a little more physical for a while.”  
  
(I very carefully avoided thinking about how much I already hurt right now, and how I’d pushed myself way too hard during this morning’s work out. It was just pain. I could work through it.)  
  
(I could do this. I could.)  
  
“If you say so,” he said, sounding dubious. “Just… be careful, okay? Don’t let her push you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”  
  
Maybe she was the one he should be telling to be careful, I thought darkly. But all I said out loud was:  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
There was an awkward pause, but then Aegis kind of shook himself.  
  
“Right. So. Since you’re a member of the team now, we thought it would be nice to do the whole group unmasking thing. I mean, obviously you’re under no obligation to reciprocate, but we’ve discussed it amongst ourselves and we’re all happy to show you our faces.” A frown briefly flickered over his face. “Well, not Shadow Stalker,” he amended. “But don’t take it personally. She hardly ever takes the mask off when she’s here.”  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said.  
  
Honestly, it seemed a little overly trusting on their part, but a part of me was a little touched by the gesture. It certainly went a long way to making me feel like I really could be a part of this team. I dithered for a moment, suddenly filled with a completely irrational fear that they’d take one look at me and instantly know who and what I was. I was my mother’s daughter, after all…  
  
But no. I really doubted anyone here knew what she’d looked like. I was probably safe. Probably.  
  
Anyway, I was surely going to have to unmask sometime, especially if I was going to be living here in the Wards HQ. And the cynic in me mused that I might as well do it in such a way as to maximise goodwill right from the start.  
  
I took a deep breath and then, before I could change my mind, I stood and pulled off my mask.  
  
“Hi,” I said softly, and perhaps a little stupidly, looking around at all of them. “I’m Astrid.” Yeah, they already knew my name, but it was the principle of the thing. I attempted a smile, but I honestly wasn’t sure how well it worked. “Nice to meet you all.”  
  
Aegis — I wasn’t sure I could really think of him by his civilian name, at least not while we were here in the HQ — smiled at me. (A part of me was warmed by the clear approval in his expression. A part of me wondered if the smile was just to hide his anger at the fact that I’d distracted him from disciplining his subordinate.) But I didn’t miss the way his smile dimmed a little as his gaze flicked over my visible bruises, before he dialled it back up again.  
  
Gallant was next to unmask, and I felt a nagging sense of familiarity as his features were revealed, like maybe I’d seen him somewhere before. I couldn’t for the life of me think where, though.  
  
“I’m Dean,” he told me, and he really did have a nice smile. “It’s nice to finally meet face to face, as it were.” To my surprise, his smile turned into a smirk, and his voice was wry as he continued. “And it’s certainly an improvement over trying to hold a conversation through a bathroom door.”  
  
That startled a laugh out of me.  
  
“You’re not wrong about that,” I said, somehow finding a smirk on my own face, despite everything. “But I guess you’re the expert. Do you make a habit of accosting strange girls in bathrooms?”  
  
His grin widened. He opened his mouth to reply, but Clockblocker interrupted him, his voice a little muffled as he pulled off his mask to reveal freckles and a shock of red hair.  
  
“Wait,” he said. “So you get all flustered when **I** flirt with you, but you’ll happily chat up Dean here like it ain’t no thing?”  
  
“What?” I damn near yelped the word, my cheeks burning so hot I thought my blush must have been visible from space right now. “That wasn’t… I… I wasn’t trying to…”  
  
God-fucking-dammit to hell! What a fucking **asshole**.  
  
I made myself stop talking, or whatever the hell that stuttering, stammering, **babbling** was supposed to be, glaring fucking daggers at Clockblocker, who smirked in a way that had me clenching my fists.  
  
“That blush is even more impressive without the mask,” he told me, his expression positively mischievous as he added. “Not to mention about ten times more adorable.”  
  
I was going to kill him.  
  
I was going to fucking tear that piece of shit into tiny little pieces. And then tear the pieces into tinier pieces until there wasn’t even a greasy smear to mark where this **asshole** had once stood.  
  
“Dennis,” Gallant bit out, and I supposed it was good to know the name of the person I was about to wipe from the face of the goddamned earth. “Stop. Talking.”  
  
Good advice.  
  
Also useful because Gallant’s intervention cleared the red haze that had started to descend over my vision, helping me to focus on something that **wasn’t** how much I wanted to end that motherfucker **Dennis** right about now.  
  
(I felt more than a little queasy as it suddenly hit me just **what** it was I’d been thinking.)  
  
I made myself take a breath and unclench my fists, concentrating on the soothing feeling of my power curling through the metal surrounding me, reminding me that I had **options**. Somehow, I was completely unsurprised to realise that I’d apparently split the soles of my socks and shoes again, with still no more awareness of doing it than I’d had last time.  
  
(I wouldn’t really have lashed out like that, would I? I wouldn’t really have tried to…?)  
  
“What?” Dennis asked, mock-innocently. “Just making an observation, that’s all.”  
  
He got to his feet, and I… I panicked.  
  
He was going to get too close and I’d do something awful, and I might want to beat seven shades of shit out of him right about now, but I didn’t want to **really** hurt him, or worse, and I wasn’t sure I could control myself or my power if he got too close and I couldn’t find my voice right now; didn’t even know what to say if I could, and so I reached out with my power and…  
  
 _Stay._  
  
“What the hell?” he yelped.  
  
Dennis wobbled in place as he apparently tried to take a step and failed. He looked down, and I followed the direction of his gaze, already knowing what was there, but wanting to see it with my own eyes as well as sense it with my power. The vinyl floor covering had split and peeled back, allowing the metal beneath to flow up and over, encasing his feet up to the ankles, trapping him in place.  
  
He looked over at me and I, feeling somewhat calmer all of a sudden — oh, I was still fucking **furious** with the bastard, but I’d recovered enough self-control to keep my temper more or less leashed — gave him a somewhat feral smile and unclenched my fists.  
  
“Not smart, **Dennis** ,” I drawled. “Pissing off a matter manipulator when you’re standing on the same surface as me?” I shook my head. “Not smart at all.”  
  
Silence fell over the Hub, the other Wards staring wordlessly at me, or at Dennis, who struggled uselessly to get free. I resisted the urge to make the metal constrict.  
  
(Or to make it flow up further, encasing him completely.)  
  
Unexpectedly, Vista burst out laughing.  
  
“Oh, I have to get a photo of this,” she giggled. “Please don’t let him go yet, Astrid.”  
  
“Take your time,” I told her, a little bemused.  
  
“Laugh it up, Squirt,” Dennis told her, scowling fiercely. “I will get my revenge.”  
  
(I felt a brief flutter of unease, wondering what he’d do to me in retaliation for this, but I supposed there was no point worrying about the consequences of my actions now. It was done. Whatever happened would happen. I’d just have to hope it wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle.)  
  
“Maybe you will,” Vista told him, sounding distinctly unfazed. “But I’ll still have this.” She pulled her phone out of her costume and snapped a couple of photos. When she was done, she pulled off her mask, turning to me with a broad smile.  
  
“I’m Missy,” she told me cheerfully. “And that was **awesome**.”  
  
“Chris,” said Kid Win, also unmasking. “Uh, just a heads up, but you need to be really careful about messing with the HQ. It’s rigged against tampering, and you don’t want to end up covered in containment foam. Trust me, that stuff’s a pain in the ass.”  
  
Oh, shit!  
  
I was using my power on the Wards HQ.  
  
And… And I’d used it against a team mate.  
  
(I’d broken the rules.)  
  
Fuck.  
  
I was going to be in so much trouble.  
  
I let Clockblocker go, and he stumbled back a couple of steps as soon as he realised that he could, looking down at the floor that had just held him prisoner. I fixed the damage I’d caused with barely a thought, looking somewhat apprehensively over at Aegis to try and figure out how angry he was.  
  
(Just how bad was this going to be?)  
  
His lips were pressed tightly together, but I honestly couldn’t tell if he was holding back a snarl or a smile. I assumed it was the former. Why the fuck had I used my power like this? Sure, it was satisfying in the short term, but it was fucking **asinine** in the long term. I’d undoubtedly made at least one enemy, even if I seemed to have made something of an ally in Vista, bizarrely. I’d risked breaking the Wards HQ. And, most importantly, I’d pissed off the team leader.  
  
Hellfire and damnation. I was fucking idiotic sometimes.  
  
On the plus side, no sudden stream of containment foam, so my manipulations obviously hadn’t tripped the anti-tampering system. So, you know, small mercies.  
  
“Si-ir,” Dennis said, his voice a nasal whine I could only assume was deliberate. At least, I really hoped it was, because that shit would get really old, really fast. “The new girl’s picking on me!”  
  
“From where I’m standing, it looks like you had it coming,” Aegis told him firmly, much to my very great surprise. “But, Astrid.” He turned to me, and I flinched before I even realised I was going to. (Fuck! What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I so goddamn jittery today? I seriously needed to get it together.) He went very still for a moment, his expression completely unfathomable. In a surprisingly gentle voice, he continued. “In general, it’s probably best if you don’t use your power on the Wards HQ.”  
  
(Fuck. Did he see me twitch? Did the others?)  
  
(Did they think I was weak?)  
  
“Sorry, Sir,” I said, doing my level best to keep my tone neutral.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said, and smiled. “No harm done, and it **was** funny.”  
  
Wait. Did that mean he **wasn’t** angry?  
  
(Did it mean he wasn’t going to punish me?)  
  
(Why not?)  
  
“I’ll send you the photo,” Vista piped up.  
  
“Thanks,” he told her. That prompted a chorus of me too’s from Gallant and Kid Win — uh, Dean and Chris, I supposed — and an over-dramatic rant from Dennis about how the whole world was against him.  
  
I might have appreciated the last a little more if it hadn’t felt like the walls were closing in on me. It was a struggle not to swallow audibly against the lump in my throat. I hesitated a moment before speaking, but made myself continue. If I didn’t say anything, and he found out later… No, it was best to come clean now.  
  
“You should probably know, Sir,” I told Aegis, pleased that my voice sounded suitably businesslike. “I… can’t actually turn my power off. And, while I can generally keep it under control, there are occasions when I seem to use it without being entirely aware that I’m doing so.” My chest was getting tight, and I made myself take a breath. “Just minor effects,” I hastened to reassure him, leaving off the ‘so far.’ (And that I was worried it wouldn’t stop there.) “But… There’s a small but non-zero chance I may end up using my power on the HQ without intending to. I, uh, just thought you should know.”  
  
(Fuck, if Dad knew I wasn’t maintaining control of my power, even in the minor ways it had slipped my grasp so far, he would give me **such** a hiding.)  
  
(What was Aegis going to do?)  
  
(I really hoped he didn’t think I was making excuses for future disobedience.)  
  
“Well, that can happen with new capes,” Aegis said, and he didn’t **sound** angry, but then I’d only met him today. He could be right on the verge of disciplining me, and I wouldn’t necessarily know. “But part of the training will involve helping you to figure out your power, so it’s probably not anything to worry about right now.”  
  
“I see, Sir.”  
  
Did that mean he wasn’t going to punish me? That he wouldn’t, if my power slipped its leash and acted without my conscious intent? It hardly seemed likely.  
  
Dean started to say something, only to for Dennis to talk right over him.  
  
“So. New Girl,” he said, eyeing me speculatively.  
  
“What?” I asked suspiciously, feeling a sense of impending doom.  
  
He continued to scrutinise me, letting the tension build until I was about a hair’s breadth from growling at him to just ask his damn question already. That, naturally, was when he smirked wickedly and asked:  
  
“You’re into bondage, huh?”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ!” I not-quite-yelped, my face feeling like it was on fire. “You never fucking learn, do you?”  
  
“I do try not to,” he drawled, looking so fucking **punchably** smug right now that…  
  
No.  
  
No, I did **not** have the patience for this shit right now.  
  
If I didn’t get out of here, I was going to do something we’d both probably likely regret. Him more than me, I’d bet. At least in the short term.  
  
Luckily, I had a ready-made excuse.  
  
I very ostentatiously checked my watch. “Well, fun as this is,” I said, my voice only just this side of a growl. “I really shouldn’t keep Shadow Stalker waiting any longer.” I turned to Aegis and stood to attention, my face and voice composed again as I asked him: “Is that alright, Sir?”  
  
Aegis frowned a little, and my breath caught in my throat, but then he nodded and said: “Just be careful, okay?”  
  
If all went well, I wasn’t the one who’d have to be careful. But I couldn’t very well tell him that, so I said aloud was:  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
I was **really** looking forward to this.


	18. Agoraphobia 2.06

“You took your time,” was the first thing Shadow Stalker said when I entered the gym. “I assumed you weren’t coming.” She sounded bored, disinterested; like she just didn’t care either way. It was guaranteed to put my hackles right the fuck up.  
  
It was, I was darkly amused to note, not a million miles away from the tone I used when I **really** wanted to wind Lance up.  
  
“So fucking sorry to disappoint you,” I drawled sarcastically in response, striding out onto the mat and running through some quick stretches. I wasn’t just warming up — I needed a clear idea of how, if at all, my movements would be impaired before we began. My wrist was a concern, but not a major one, and there was nothing incapacitating. I was good to go.  
  
Anyway, even if I hadn’t been, it wasn’t like I was going to back down.  
  
No matter how many times I tried to tell myself I wasn’t like Lance, wasn’t like Dad, I couldn’t deny there was a darkness in me; a deep-seated thirst for violence I sometimes didn’t think I’d ever be able to slake.  
  
Mostly, I could control it.  
  
Mostly, I could keep myself from giving in and just lashing out at anyone who so much as looked at me crosswise.  
  
Mostly.  
  
But that didn’t mean the need wasn’t there. If nothing else, my recent interactions with Clockblocker — Dennis — had made me very fucking aware of that. And I… I was only human. I couldn’t keep it chained all the time. I’d tried that before and it didn’t end well. (Not for anyone involved, and least of all for me.) So, instead, I tried to limit it to acceptable targets only. And Shadow Stalker? She’d made herself an acceptable target.  
  
Anticipation thrummed within me, bringing a razor-edged clarity I only ever felt in these moments before a fight; when violence was a certainty, and only the eventual outcome lay in doubt. I felt almost calm, though my rage simmered just barely beneath the surface, awaiting only a spark to bring it blazing forth. Adrenaline made me feel like a live wire as it sparked along my nerves; made me feel hyper-aware and so, **so** alive.  
  
The expectation of violence was almost a rush in and of itself.  
  
I was actually a little surprised that none of the other Wards had come to watch us spar. I knew I would have been curious to see a new team member put through her paces. I was only a little bit disheartened that no one was apparently all that interested.  
  
The fact that Aegis hadn’t come to watch left me feeling oddly conflicted. On the one hand, I was relieved not to be under his scrutiny. Not to have to worry about fucking up and making him angry with me. On the other… I was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t have the chance to show him what I could do.  
  
Ah, well. I supposed there would be other opportunities.  
  
My power slid through my metal, whispered through the mat beneath my feet and onwards into the building, centring me. I reminded myself that I had to be careful not to use it on my surroundings, despite the temptation. (Not unless I really needed to.)  
  
Shadow Stalker sashayed lazily over from where she’d been running through drills with one of the training dummies. I might not have been able to see her face, but everything about her posture and movements matched her tone. Boredom. Disinterest. Dismissal. Like this was barely even worth the effort of the short walk towards me, let alone anything else.  
  
All deliberate, unless I missed my guess; all perfectly calculated to enrage and inflame.  
  
I wasn’t saying it didn’t work but, well, if she thought merely being incandescent with rage was going to make me lose my self-control, she had another fucking think coming. Sure, it wasn’t like I’d never done that, wasn’t like just cutting loose didn’t come with its own special kind of high, but I needed to play this smart. I might have been training to fight my whole life, but I’d only had my powers for just over a week. She’d been a cape for months at the very least; maybe even years. I couldn’t afford not to take her seriously, which meant I had to keep my head.  
  
What did I know about Shadow Stalker?  
  
Breaker/Stranger; able to turn into some kind of shadow state that let her phase through objects. Used crossbows with tranq bolts, but also knew how to handle herself in close quarters combat. The crossbows could be a problem, unless I was fast enough to block her bolts. I somehow doubted I’d be that lucky.  
  
“You planning on going to the safe route and using your crossbows?” I asked her, the contempt in my voice making it crystal clear what I thought of **that** notion.  
  
“Nah, you’re not worth the bolts,” she sneered. “Anyway, I don’t want this to be over quite that quickly.”  
  
“That makes two of us,” I retorted, giving her a sharp-edged smile.  
  
She circled around me to take up a position at the other end of the mat. “I suppose you’re going to ask me to take it easy on you.” The words dripped with scorn. “To play nice. Just like Aegis told us.”  
  
What else did I know about Shadow Stalker? Her reputation. A reputation she’d put a not inconsiderable amount of effort into maintaining, at least around Winslow. She valued being seen as a threat; being taken seriously. Being feared?  
  
I could work with that.  
  
“Hardly,” I said, infusing the word with all the disdain I could muster as I looked her up and down contemptuously. “But I’d understand if a little thing like you would prefer to stick to ‘nice.’ Otherwise…” I smiled, deliberately shifting into a balanced combat stance, my weight on the balls of my feet, ready to move.“Do your worst, bitch.”  
  
She wasn’t the only one who knew how to piss people off.  
  
Without another word, she **moved**. In a flash of shadow, she was in my face — literally — as her knee slammed into my cheek. The world flashed white at the impact as I toppled back, her full weight carrying me towards the mat.  
  
(Mover, I thought in the moment of oddly slow time as the world tilted around me. If she didn't have a Mover rating, she really should have one.)  
  
The air exploded out of me as I crashed into the mat, but that didn't stop my fist from jabbing into her ribs by reflex, causing her to huff out a breath of her own before she dissipated into shadow once more. I took the opportunity to roll away and to my feet, careful to keep an eye on her blurred, inky form.  
  
(My fist was coated in metal, I noted, though I didn't remember doing that. Really not the time to worry about it, though.)  
  
Distantly, I was aware of moisture on my upper lip. The bitch had made my nose bleed; must have clipped it with her knee. Might even have broken it, for all I knew, but I could worry about that later. If there was any pain, adrenaline didn’t let it touch me; it wasn’t going to slow me down one bit.  
  
“Not bad,” Shadow Stalker said, solidifying for a moment. “Not good enough, though,” she added before phasing and blurring towards me once again.  
  
My metal sprouted a forest of fine wires, filling the air between us. Nowhere near thick enough to stop her, but thankfully enough to make her pause in her rush towards me, giving me time to move out of the way. It had been a gamble, but I’d hoped the thought of potentially becoming solid around a wire would be enough to give her pause.  
  
She quickly darted one way, then another, then another, solidifying each time just long enough to push herself along a new vector. Another push, then another and she was behind me before I'd finished reacting to her last movement. A hard blow to the kidneys had my legs buckling slightly even as I reflexively flung an arm around, catching nothing but smoke with my wires.  
  
Expecting a follow-up strike, I jabbed my other elbow backwards, hard, briefly making contact with something solid before she vanished again. I spun around, condensing my wires into thicker cables, sending one lashing out at eye level. No sign of Shadow Stalker, which meant…  
  
I moved fast enough the anticipated attack only clipped my side, rather than slamming into it. My retaliatory strike, however, hit nothing but air. I moved again, lashing out with my cables, but she flickered in and out of her shadow state faster than I’d realised was possible, jabbing me in the stomach. I absorbed the blow — she didn’t hit nearly as hard as Lance did — but she was gone again before I could hit her back. Just like the next time, and the next, and the next; blow after blow raining down on me as if from nowhere, while I couldn’t so much as lay a goddamn hand on her.  
  
This was **really** fucking frustrating.  
  
I was starting to think that fighting a breaker was even more annoying than fighting a fucking brute. At least I could actually hit my dad, even if it didn’t do a whole lot to him.  
  
Time to change things up.  
  
She pulled the fade and strike a couple more times before I reached my target, but did no significant damage. I guessed she actually was playing nice after all. I curled my lip in a sneer as I brushed my arm against the training dummy and sent my power surging through it.  
  
“I’ve been hit harder than that in grade school,” I told her, contemptuously. “I didn’t realise you’d be so… **weak**.”  
  
As I spoke, the dummy dissolved into a mass of fibres — tough, ductile polymer strands — which I drew around myself before splitting and spreading them outwards. The end result of my reshaping was a mass of fine streamers extending up to a couple of feet out from me in all directions, not unlike a giant mutant sea anemone. The structure wouldn’t stop a blow, but then it wasn’t intended to. It did, however, prevent Shadow Stalker from materialising right next to me.  
  
Which was just as well.  
  
“Who the fuck do you think you are to call **me** weak?” she snarled, snapping back into solid form just outside my barrier and sending a fist hurtling towards my face. I blocked it hard — harder than I needed to, honestly, but I wanted her to fucking **feel** it — and shot out a punch of my own. My fist connected solidly with her cheek, the force of the blow snapping her head back a little as she ducked and pivoted to sweep my legs out from under me.  
  
I hit the mat and then my lungs seized as Shadow Stalker’s full weight crashed onto my gut, elbow first. As I gasped for breath, she shifted position and smacked me hard in the face, the chest, the stomach.  
  
“Who’s weak now, **bitch**?” she growled. She paused, like she was giving me the chance to respond, but I was too busy concentrating on pushing the pain away and getting my legs under me. “Yeah, thought so,” she muttered, and then her weight moved off me.  
  
I shoved myself to my feet and lashed out with my cables, cracking her across the back of the head as hard as I could. Shadow Stalker phased and blurred out of range, then coalesced back into solid form, turning to look at me.  
  
“Well what do you know?” I said, my voice a little ragged as I still struggled a little to catch my breath. “I actually almost felt that.”  
  
“Why don’t you stay the fuck down?” she snarled.  
  
“Why don’t you fucking **make** me?” I snarled back. “If you can.”  
  
I launched myself at her before I’d even finished speaking, snapping out a series of strikes, first with my cables, and then my fists. She phased and moved, fast enough and skilled enough with her power that I could barely even touch her. For her part, being unable to reform from her breaker state within a couple of feet of me didn’t stop her from pulling the fade-and-strike trick again and a-fucking-gain, which meant I was definitely getting the worst of this exchange.  
  
(And even through the adrenaline haze, my wrist was starting to throb again, lines of fire shooting all the way up my arm every time I moved it.)  
  
I was starting to realise that maybe her reputation wasn’t entirely undeserved.  
  
I was stronger, but she was faster. My technique was better, I thought, but her power more than made up the difference. More than that, it meant she could take risks I couldn’t, because if things did go awry for her — like at the start of the fight, when she’d clearly be expecting me to be left prone and helpless by the knee to the face — she could simply fade away.  
  
Yeah, I was really starting to hate that trick.  
  
But the thing was, she could only dodge what she could see, only avoid attacks she knew were coming. I’d been deliberately focusing my attacks on her face and upper body, keeping her attention up. So when I rammed my knee up into her gut as hard as I could, she really didn’t see it coming. My blow connected solidly, driving the air out of her. I swiftly followed up with an elbow to the face — see how the bitch liked a nosebleed of her own — but barely even clipped her before she blurred into shadow. Again.  
  
Goddammit!  
  
She moved through me this time, emerging somewhere behind. I started to turn, condensing one of my cables into a solid baton as I tried to find her before her inevitable attack found me. My polymer tendrils crumpled suddenly on one side and I lashed out with the baton in that direction, smacking it into her wrist so that her blow went wide.  
  
She flickered in and out of solidity, shoving off the mat and launching herself through me again faster than I could dodge. I started to move, but a powerful impact against my back — a kick? — sent me stumbling forward a step. Before I could recover, my legs were swept from under me again, pitching me forward this time. I tried to break my fall, but my bad wrist gave way, costing me precious moments in my recovery. Those lost moments gave Shadow Stalker the opportunity to kick me in the side and then drop her full weight onto me again, hammering down onto my back.  
  
(I distantly registered a tearing sensation followed by the damp stickiness of blood on my skin. One or more of the barely healed welts on my back must have split open again. Or maybe it was one of the miscellaneous cuts I’d picked up during hell week. It was just surface damage, though. It didn’t matter.)  
  
I couldn’t breathe.  
  
I had to breathe.  
  
If I could breathe, I could move. If I could move, I could stand. If I could stand, I could fight. If I could fight, I could win.  
  
Well… Maybe not win, not like this. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try my fucking hardest. And it sure as shit didn’t mean I was going to give up.  
  
Anyway, there was more than one type of victory condition.  
  
Shadow Stalker’s weight vanished from my back  
  
I sucked in a ragged breath, feeling like I was inflating my lungs from willpower alone, but it got me sweet, sweet oxygen. It was a start. It let me pull myself together, take a deeper breath and make myself get to my feet. She stood some distance away, watching me, her head tilted slightly to one side.  
  
I smiled at her — God, I must have looked a fright — and moved back into a ready position, snapping out my cables and letting my polymer streamers ripple around me.  
  
“Is that…” I had to pause and take another breath, doing my best not to sound like I was wheezing. “All you’ve got…” Another shallow breath. “Little girl?”  
  
Shadow Stalker shook her head, but I didn’t think she meant it as an answer.  
  
“You must really like pain,” she murmured, and I was pleased to note that I wasn’t the only one panting for breath right now. Maybe all that phasing in quick succession took it out of her.  
  
Maybe I could use that.  
  
I snorted.  
  
“You think **this** is real pain? How fucking cute.”  
  
**This** was just a beating. Sure, I’d be a little sore afterwards, but it was just surface damage. Dad had done far worse to me as punishment for trying to run. (And that didn’t even begin to touch on what he did to try to force me to trigger.)  
  
I launched myself at her again, moving as fast as I could as I lashed out with cables again and again, trying to force her into going insubstantial. Some hits passed through her, while others she took, using her moments of solidity to zig and zag, manoeuvring herself around me. I pushed my tendrils outwards, expanding the range at which I could sense her approach, buying myself a few precious extra moments to react. That meant her elbow merely clipped the side of my face, rather than slamming solidly into the back of my head. I couldn’t dodge the knee to the back, though, and had to use my cables to keep myself upright, stabbing them through the mat and into the metal beneath.  
  
Metal that was starting to stir without my consciously willing it.  
  
I frantically exerted effort to keep it in check, not wanting to trip the anti-tampering systems (not wanting to get in trouble), and my distraction let Shadow Stalker get another few strikes in. It was fine. I could take it. She didn’t hit that hard.  
  
Anyway, now I had an idea.  
  
Somehow, I found some more effort from somewhere, stepping up my own attacks as much as I could, willing to take a hit or two in trade for either landing a strike on her, or forcing her to phase. The latter happened more than the former, especially after I wrapped my fists in metal again — deliberately, this time.  
  
The first spike took her by surprise as it shot up from the floor, forcing her to phase and abandon the punch she’d been throwing my way.  
  
(I really hoped this wasn’t going to trip the sensors, but it was a risk I was willing to take. Showing this fucking **bitch** she couldn’t just walk all over me was a goal eminently worth breaking the rules for.)  
  
(Even if I did end up in the basement for it.)  
  
The next spike, and the next, and the one after that, alas, seemed to be little more than minor inconveniences to her. Perhaps she was a little more cautious, but that was all. But that was fine. I had other options. Now she’d gotten used to the spikes, it was time to change things up a bit.  
  
I lunged for her, smacking a cable across her eyes. Well, at them: she flickered and let it pass through her, but merely side-stepped the spikes that erupted from the ground in front of her as I continued on past as if I simply couldn’t check my own momentum. It was a risky move, letting her get behind me, but then what was life without a little risk?  
  
Besides, between my tendrils and the metal of the floor, it wasn’t like I didn’t know exactly where she was.  
  
My only regret was that I couldn’t see the look on her face as metal suddenly flowed up and over her, binding her in place. At the same moment, I spun and launched myself towards her, shifting the metal beneath me to give myself first a smooth surface (so I could pivot easier), and then a ridged one (for traction as I pushed off). Maybe she **had** over-used her phasing ability or something because she was still in the half-formed cocoon a split second later when I punched her in the solar plexus with a metal-wrapped fist.  
  
Except, annoyingly, **frustratingly** , I barely even made contact with the fucking slippery bitch before she phased and blurred backwards, well out of reach. I dismissed the cocoon with a thought, letting it sink back into the floor as I tried to locate Shadow Stalker again.  
  
There! Movement!  
  
Shadow Stalker condensed from her shadow state, pushing off and changing direction, zagging out of sight behind some gym equipment. I was a little startled to realise that she seemed to have lost her trench coat. As I began a cautious pursuit, not wanting to let myself get lured into a trap, I felt around with my power, and realised what had happened to her coat. Metal tendrils had insinuated themselves into the heavy material, weaving themselves through. They were part of it now, and they were still part of the floor, so — as far as my power was concerned — the coat was also now part of the floor.  
  
And it had been left behind when she shifted…  
  
Had she tried to take it with her and failed? Was that why she hadn’t phased right away?  
  
Definitely something to investigate, but maybe not right now this very moment.  
  
First, I had to **find** the bitch.  
  
Where the flying fuck had she gone?  
  
The lights went out.  
  
I moved instantly, training taking over, knowing that an attack was incoming but not from where. I had to assume that she wouldn’t be impaired by the darkness the same way I was, or she wouldn’t have killed the lights. (Some aspect of her power? Some kind of tech? Didn’t know; didn’t care.) She’d be coming for me, and she’d be coming in hard. From above, if she stuck to her usual MO.  
  
“You’re going to regret that,” she growled, her voice coming from somewhere behind and to the left. I knew better than to bother trying to pursue her. She wouldn’t be there when I caught up to where she’d been; would most likely be waiting in ambush if I **was** so foolish as to let her bait me into playing by her rules.  
  
“Like no one’s ever told me that before,” I sneered back.  
  
I had to limit potential routes of attack. I had to control the terrain as much as I could. I needed somewhere defensible, with features I could use to my advantage.  
  
(Could I turn on the lights with my power? Maybe if I’d mapped out the circuits ahead of time; if I knew exactly which switches to flip. But there was way too much information to figure that out right now. Clearly, mapping out the inner workings of the Wards HQ was going to have to go on my ‘things to do’ list.)  
  
(But first, I had to get through this fight.)  
  
I headed for a bolthole I’d marked earlier; a nook in what looked like some kind of obstacle course. Thanks to my contact with the floor, I knew exactly where I was in the room. Thanks to my tendrils, I could sense any obstacles in my way before I smacked into them. I moved as fast as I dared; a little faster than was probably wise.  
  
It wasn’t fast enough.  
  
By my reckoning, I still had several metres to go when Shadow Stalker crashed down on top of me, hammering me into the ground. And then the blows kept coming; a relentless, unstoppable onslaught. I tried to block, to strike back, to get up and move, but she just kept hitting me; over and over and over again. I lashed out at her and caught nothing but air. I tried to get up and she smacked me back down. Each time it was harder and harder to catch my breath, harder and harder to just keep fighting. It would have been easier to stop trying, but it just wasn’t in me to quit.  
  
No fucking way would I willingly back down to the likes of **her**.  
  
Like I’d told her earlier: the only way I’d ever stop getting back up again was if she made me stop.  
  
After what felt like an eternity of me trying, and failing, to do something meaningful, Shadow Stalker bounced my head off the ground, hard, making fireworks explode behind my eyes. My whole body went limp as a puppet with its strings cut. No matter how hard I tried to make it work again, it just wouldn’t obey my commands.  
  
**Fuck!**  
  
Goddamn misbegotten, fucking pathetic, craven, merely human, **weak** little machine of flesh and blood and bone! Don’t you fucking dare give up like this! Don’t fail me now!  
  
Fucking **work** , damn you!  
  
Do as you’re goddamn told and fucking **fight**!  
  
Metal whispered over my skin; not lashing out, not exploding out into razor wires or blades or anything like that, but doing something else. Something new. I just couldn’t focus enough to figure out what it was.  
  
Shadow Stalker crouched over me like a gargoyle, her weight pressing down on my shoulders and back as she leaned over to whisper in my ear.  
  
(I would’ve head-butted her in the face if I’d been able to move even a little.)  
  
“Not bad, Astrid,” she murmured, her voice like silk over steel. “Not good enough, but not bad.” She twined her fingers in my hair, pulling my head up towards her, so close that I could feel her breath on my ear as she practically whispered her next words. “Maybe you’ll do better next time.”  
  
And then the bitch disappeared.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

My head dropped forward without my conscious volition, and I was dully surprised when, instead of the shock of impact I was expecting, my face was cushioned and cradled by something (metal) that was blessedly cool against my tender skin.  
  
Which I now knew was tender, because the fight was over.  
  
Which meant I was coming down from the adrenaline high.  
  
Which meant that all those little, nagging aches and pains it had been keeping at bay — both the old ones and the ones Shadow Stalker had just given me — were suddenly clamouring to make themselves known.  
  
**Fuck** , I was sore.  
  
But the more I lay here feeling sorry for myself, the worse it was going to get. I had to move; had to get to my feet. If nothing else, I had to try to fix the mess I’d undoubtedly made of the gym before anyone came to investigate. I just…  
  
Shit.  
  
I wasn’t sure I could actually move right now.  
  
I tried anyway, but the most I could manage were a few pathetic twitches that did precisely jack and shit to get me back on my feet. Of more use was the liquid coolness flowing over my skin, wrapping around my battered limbs and gently wriggling beneath me, supporting my weary muscles and giving me something to push against, helping me to get my hands and feet under me. It was metal, I belatedly, stupidly realised. Not my metal, though; I must have pulled this from the floor beneath me. Except… It sure as shit **felt** like it was mine.  
  
(And… Traitorous though the thought felt, this was actually far better quality than my original metal.)  
  
Even with the metal’s help, it took me longer than I cared to think about to make the slow, painful climb into an upright position. The only reason I stayed that way, at least at first, was the metal shoring up muscles that would have given the way under the strain. It was getting easier, though. It was.  
  
(At least, that was what I told myself.)  
  
I just stood there for a little while in the dark, just… breathing. Even with support from the metal that now wrapped me from head to toe, I felt like I was swaying gently in the non-existent breeze. The thought of walking was… No. Not yet. Soon, but not yet. For now, I would just stand.  
  
And breathe.  
  
As I breathed, I let my senses expand a little bit at a time, incrementally lifting the restrictions I kept them under so as not to be overwhelmed. I kind of **wanted** to be overwhelmed right now. Not to the point of migraine, but…  
  
It might have been weak, but I really didn’t want to be aware of my own body right now. Not when it wouldn’t serve the way it should. Not when it **failed**.  
  
(Not when it hurt so fucking badly.)  
  
Metal was easier. Metal was better. Metal did what it was supposed to, even without being told. Although, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe metal could have fucking gotten its ass in gear and armoured my all-too mortal, all-too vulnerable body **before** Shadow Stalker started smacking seven shades of shit out of me.  
  
No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t the metal’s fault. It was mine. I’d even thought about investing in some armour. It just hadn’t occurred to me that I could use my power to **make** some.  
  
I felt like a fucking idiot.  
  
Well, no sense beating myself up over it, I guessed. Especially since Shadow Stalker had done that for me, already. In spades. I couldn’t help feeling a grudging, unwilling kind of respect for the sheer bloody-minded viciousness of the beating she’d dished out, even as I swore to myself that, next time, I’d find a way to turn the tables on the slippery bitch.  
  
Next time.  
  
Huh.  
  
That was what she’d said.  
  
Weirdly, despite my new bumps and bruises, despite the fact that my T-shirt seemed to be stuck to my back with my own blood, despite the fact that I’d pretty definitively lost this particular round, I actually felt strangely… calm. The anxiety that had been plaguing me ever since I’d met Aegis for the first time in the canteen (God, had it really been less than a couple of hours ago?) had finally subsided into something not a million miles away from peace.  
  
I felt…  
  
This felt…  
  
(It felt like home.)  
  
It felt like maybe I really could make a place for myself here, with the Wards.  
  
Like maybe I could find some way to fit in. To belong.  
  
And that, actually, felt pretty fucking good.  
  
Right.  
  
Enough standing around feeling sorry for myself. More than enough. It was way past time to get this show on the road and set about fixing some of this damage.  
  
First things first: where was that fucking light switch…?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I had to admit that my newfound calm started to fray around the edges as I made my way back downstairs towards the Hub. No matter how firmly, or how many times, I told myself that it would be fine.  
  
I’d fixed all the damage I’d done to the floor of the gym. Honestly, it had actually been relatively minor. All I’d really done was move some of the metal around a little. It hadn’t even been enough to activate the anti-tampering system.  
  
(Note to self: find out what kinds of things **would** trip that system, preferably by asking someone rather than by empirical research.)  
  
(I’d found myself oddly reluctant to return the metal I’d claimed as part of my belated attempt to armour myself. I, uh, might possibly have not actually returned every last bit of it to the floor in the end. I might, in fact, have kept a piece of it back for myself. Not as much as I would have preferred, not enough for anyone to notice, but… some.)  
  
Putting the training dummy back together again had actually been harder than fixing the floor. In the end, I’d had to spend a good few minutes studying one of the other, similar dummies, building up a template in my head to act as a guide. The end result wasn’t perfect, but it was probably close enough for anyone who didn’t have my power.  
  
Unless Shadow Stalker ratted me out, no one would ever know I’d even used my power on the Wards HQ again. (No one would know I’d disobeyed orders on my first day as a Ward.)  
  
I’d even fixed up Shadow Stalker’s coat as best as I could. That mostly just consisted of carefully withdrawing the metal tendrils from the heavy leather and shrinking or sealing the tiny holes they left behind.  
  
(I did have an uncomfortable few moments wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t phased out of the cocoon when she did. Would the metal fibres have kept going? Would they have bored right through her coat, through the armoured bodysuit and what she wore beneath it? Would they have burrowed right under her skin? Would I, **could** I have torn her apart like one of the training dummies back at the cabin? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. And that scared me.)  
  
(Well, it would if I actually allowed myself to think about it.)  
  
The coat was a good one, sturdy and thick. Honestly, if there was a chance in hell it would have fit me, I would’ve been very, **very** tempted to keep it for myself. Unfortunately, Shadow Stalker and I had **extremely** different builds, and I wasn’t sure even my power was capable of working the kind of miracle it would have taken to let me wear it. In the end, I’d simply slung it carelessly over the reconstituted training dummy.  
  
If she wanted it back, she could come up here and look for it. Or she could ask me nicely where it was.  
  
The damage to myself had been somewhat trickier to deal with. In the end, I’d hit the showers, both to sluice off the blood and in hopes that cold water would help take down some of the swelling. The latter wasn’t as effective as I might have hoped. Still, at least my power turned out to be of use in getting the blood out of my shirt. So, y’know. There was that.  
  
(I really appreciated the fact that there were showers next to the gym in addition to the ones on the Hub level. It was very convenient.)  
  
Maybe I’d get lucky and no one would notice that my face was a little more battered and bruised than it had been when I’d headed up here. Maybe. If only I hadn’t already unmasked. But I could hardly put the mask back on now. What would I even say? That I’d gotten shy all of a sudden?  
  
Fuck.  
  
I guessed I’d just have to brazen it out.  
  
At least my nose wasn’t broken. My wrist was still kind of fucked, though. Just a little sprained, I was pretty sure. Not broken, and I hadn’t torn a ligament or anything, but I really was going to have to try to be more careful with it. I had it splinted and immobilised right now — the work of a mere thought, thanks to my metal — and I planned on liberally applying ice packs to it at my first opportunity. Hopefully that would be enough.  
  
I was a little surprised to notice that someone had shifted some of the Hub’s internal walls around a little while I’d been sparring with Shadow Stalker. Rather than being largely open plan, different areas of it were now separated off into rooms. I heard voices coming from the briefing area and made my way over there. Maybe whoever it was would be able to tell me where the Wards kept their ice packs.  
  
Dennis and — much to my surprise — Aegis, were on the sofa, playing a computer game on the briefing screen. Dennis was sprawled out like a cat, almost lazily fiddling with his controller. Aegis, on the other hand, was practically hunched forward in his seat, his own controller clutched tightly in his hands; the very epitome of concentration. Shit. Aegis being here really threw me off balance. I’d pretty much assumed Dennis would be one of the culprits, but I was expecting Kid Win, uh, Chris to be the other person.  
  
Was it too late to take another route?  
  
Barely a moment after I thought the question, the answer became a resounding ‘fuck, no,’ as Dennis glanced over in my direction and froze, his eyes opening so wide it would have been comical if I hadn’t been busy swearing a blue streak to myself.  
  
“Holy shit!” he practically yelled. “What the fuck happened to your face?”  
  
Naturally, that got Aegis’ attention.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
With an internal sigh, I strode further into the room, trying to keep my movements loose and easy, not stiff and awkward as was likely going to be my natural state for the rest of the day.  
  
“Sparring,” I said, simply, making myself give a casual shrug.  
  
“I **knew** I should have gone to supervise,” Aegis growled. “I knew it! That is the last time I let Dean talk me into ignoring my instincts.” Practically throwing his game controller aside, he surged to his feet in an angry motion that had me wanting to scramble back, away from him. “I’m going to have a word with Shadow Stalker,” he added.  
  
(‘You and I are going to have **words** , girl.’)  
  
Shit! I should have realised the Wards would have rules about leaving visible marks. It made sense — less chance of questions that way, which meant less chance of inadvertently outing themselves. I’d just gotten Shadow Stalker in trouble, and I hadn’t even **meant** to.  
  
I wished I’d just turned around when I’d had the chance.  
  
But maybe I could head this off, somehow? Persuade Aegis that he didn’t have to discipline her?  
  
“You don’t have to do that, Sir,” I said quickly, moving to block his way, despite the fact that in his way was the absolute last place I wanted to be right now. Or ever. “It’s not as bad as it looks. And I was the one who kept telling her to take it up a notch.” I shrugged carefully. “It wasn’t her fault, Sir.”  
  
They both stared at me, and I had no earthly idea what was going through both of their heads.  
  
“Astrid,” Aegis said, his voice very, very controlled in the way that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand right up on end. “No matter how much you might have encouraged her to ‘take it up a notch,’ it is in no way acceptable for her to do **that**.” He gestured towards my face, and even though he was nowhere near me, I still nearly twitched at the motion. “Not to anyone, but especially not to a team mate.”  
  
I tensed.  
  
“It was just sparring, Sir.”  
  
“Fuck. Remind me never to spar with **you** anytime ever, New Girl,” Dennis muttered, shaking his head.  
  
I ignored him.  
  
“That is not normal,” Aegis said, looking and sounding faintly horrified. “Not even during sparring. Not unless you have some kind of brute ability that means you can take that kind of punishment. And even in that case, just because you can, that doesn’t always mean you should.” He frowned. “ **Do** you have some kind of brute package?”  
  
“No, Sir. Not that I’m aware of. But you don’t-“ I began, then broke off mid-sentence, unsure whether or not I should continue.  
  
“What was that?” he asked, perhaps a little warily.  
  
I took a breath and stood up straighter, meeting his gaze.  
  
“I was going to say that you don’t **need** a brute package to take this kind of damage, Sir. It’s minor bruising at worst; just surface damage. And it’s perfectly normal to receive these kinds of injuries during sparring.” Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. This level of injury wasn’t precisely normal even for me and Lance. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t take it, dammit. “Maybe not usually to the face,” I conceded. “But that’s just a matter of visibility, not severity.” I huffed out a breath, feeling frustrated in a way I couldn’t properly articulate. “If you’re not going to spar properly, then what’s the point of sparring at all, Sir?”  
  
Maybe I was skirting dangerously close to disrespect here, but I just wanted these people to start making some goddamned sense.  
  
“I don’t even have the words to list the many ways in which that is completely and utterly fucked up,” Aegis muttered, shaking his head. I tried to push away the instinctive flare of offence his words brought.  
  
“It’s how I was trained, Sir,” I said, a little stiffly.  
  
“Trained by who?” Dennis practically yelped. “Special forces junior division?”  
  
I rolled my eyes at his ridiculousness.  
  
“Like I said earlier, my dad’s ex-military. He didn’t so much raise me and my brother as put us through boot camp. I’ve been training for a long time, and I’m used to pushing myself pretty hard.” I turned to face Aegis, to make it clear that my next words were addressed to him. “So the bout with Shadow Stalker really wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for me, Sir. It doesn’t seem fair to reprimand her for merely sparring with me the way I’m used to.”  
  
That wouldn’t raise too many flags, would it? Because I was apparently going to need some explanation for the way I trained and fought, and being trained by an ex-military father likely wasn’t that unusual.  
  
Why were they **looking** at me like that?  
  
Aegis, to my great surprise, glanced over towards Dennis, a slightly forlorn expression on his face. “Where do I even begin?” he asked.  
  
Dennis shrugged expressively. “Don’t ask me. **You’re** the glorious leader, here. And may I just say that I have never been so thankful to be younger than you. Guess you just have to pull on your man pants and figure it out.”  
  
I tried not to twitch at the disrespect, reminding myself that Aegis apparently allowed a certain level of informality from the people he knew. Anyway, they’d been playing computer games together, so they’d obviously been at ease.  
  
“Look,” Aegis said, after a moment or two. “Without getting into a philosophical debate about the whys and wherefores of different training techniques, here in the Wards we don’t tend to leave bruises when we spar.”  
  
Seriously? Not at all? Not ever?  
  
Then what was the fucking point?  
  
“I… see, Sir,” I said, not seeing at all.  
  
“And I am going to have a chat with Shadow Stalker. Because **you** may not know better, but **she** damn well does.”  
  
“But-“  
  
“You’re not going to talk me out of it,” he said firmly, and I subsided, my protest dying unspoken.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I muttered, trying not to sound as miserable as I felt.  
  
Shit. Shadow Stalker was going to think I was a snitch. I just hoped Aegis wasn’t too harsh with her.  
  
He looked at me. I looked back at him, not having the first clue what he wanted from me. Eventually, he sighed. (He seemed to do that a lot for some reason.)  
  
“I’m sorry, Astrid,” he said, somewhat incongruously. “I should have gone to supervise. I was going to, but… Well, it doesn’t matter now, I guess. But this shouldn’t have happened, and I won’t let it happen again.”  
  
No! He couldn’t stop me sparring. He couldn’t. For a moment, my panic kept me tongue-tied, but I pushed it aside, frantically casting about for something to say.  
  
“But I was hoping to spar with Shadow Stalker again, Sir,” I said, striving for a reasonable tone. “And I believe she would be amenable to the idea.”  
  
“You’re insane,” Dennis said, shaking his head. “Like, completely and utterly certifiable. Seriously. Shadow Stalker beat you to a pulp, and you want to go back for more?”  
  
“She did **not** beat me to a pulp!” I snapped, highly offended at the fact that they both seemed to think I’d just stood there and let her hit me. Did they really think I was that fucking pathetic? “Maybe I got the worst of the exchange on this occasion, but I’ve never fought a fucking **breaker** before. Now I have a better idea of what to expect, and next time I’ll do better.”  
  
“You fought using your powers?” Aegis said, and he sounded… angry.  
  
“Um, yes, Sir.” I studied him, trying to figure out what I’d said or done wrong now. “Is that a problem?”  
  
“You mean, aside from the fact that her particular power makes an already one-sided fight even more so?”  
  
“It would **not** have been one-sided without her power,” I said, flatly. “Sir. As I have said.” Repeatedly. “I do know how to fight.”  
  
“That aside,” he said, firmly. “Yes, fighting with powers is a problem, at least right now. You haven’t been evaluated yet. You said yourself that you’re having trouble controlling your power at the moment, and that doesn’t even take into account any weird secondary abilities you might have. Plus, different powers can interact in unpredictable and sometimes dangerous ways. One or both of you could have ended up badly hurt.”  
  
Fuck. I’d broken a rule I didn’t even know existed.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sir,” I said quietly. “I didn’t think.”  
  
“No, dammit,” he said, and I flinched. “That wasn’t-“ He broke off and sighed heavily. Again. “You’re not in trouble, Astrid. I just wanted to make sure you knew not to do that again. That’s all.”  
  
“I understand, Sir.”  
  
He studied me, and I wished I knew what was going through his head right now. Was he angry? Was he going to punish me? I had absolutely no fucking clue. And I was honestly starting to think it might just be easier if he **did** just discipline me and get it over with, rather than trying to cut the new girl some slack, or whatever this shit was. At least if he did punish me, I’d know what to expect for the future. I wouldn’t have to wonder.  
  
I’d take pain over uncertainty any day. Uncertainty was fucking **exhausting**.  
  
For his part, Aegis looked like there were about a million and one things he wanted to say right about now, but he swallowed a million of them back to say, gently:  
  
“Do you need anything? A first aid kit, maybe?”  
  
“Just an ice pack, Sir,” I said.  
  
“Fine,” he replied. “Dennis will get that for you. Along with anything else you might need.”  
  
“I can get it myself, Sir,” I protested. “I just need to know where they are.”  
  
I didn’t **need** anyone to look after me, least of all fucking Dennis. Not only was I emphatically not an invalid, I’d have to be pretty far fucking gone indeed before I needed help from Clockblocker. Seriously.  
  
“Think of it as letting him make up for being an asshole to you earlier.” Aegis didn’t sound like he was going to let himself be talked out of this, so I swallowed back my protest. “Or,” he continued. “Pre-emptive making up for future assholish behaviour.”  
  
“Hey,” Dennis protested, half-heartedly. “I resemble that implication.”  
  
“I know you do,” Aegis said, looking briefly amused before the expression faded into seriousness. “Right,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “I’m going to go and talk to Shadow Stalker.”


	19. Interlude 2a: Carlos

The wind whistled through the trees, tugging at Carlos’ coat and blowing his hair into his eyes. Absently, he clawed the loose strands off his face and tucked them behind his ears. Maybe Eric was right, he mused, and it really was time for a haircut. He made a mental note to stop by the barber’s later in the week. Undoubtedly Alfredo would scold him for leaving it so long, but then he always did. In between giving him the third degree about his family, his studies, his job and — last, but most definitely not least — his love life.  
  
Carlos shook his head, somewhat bemused at Alfredo’s determination to play matchmaker. The fact that Carlos was already in a relationship didn’t seem to dissuade him one bit. At first, he’d talked about his lovely grand-daughters and great-nieces. But when Carlos had — somewhat hesitantly, because he really wasn’t sure how the hot-tempered old man would take it, and he **was** wielding a pair of scissors — told him that he wasn’t really interested in girls, Alfredo had merely paused, looked thoughtful for a moment, and said: ‘Well, I do have some very handsome grandsons. Good genes, you know.’ Carlos felt a small smile tug at his lips at the memory. If only everyone could be so understanding.  
  
And, just like that, the smile was gone as if it had never even existed. Even the urge to smile felt like a strange and foreign thing as the familiar weight of grief and anger settled like a stone on his chest. Lighter, maybe, than it used to be — even if guilt was more than happy to make up the difference — but still very much there. He thought perhaps that it always would be.  
  
Maybe that was a good thing.  
  
Maybe bearing that weight was the absolute least he could do.  
  
Maybe it was a fitting punishment for the fact that he’d failed when it really counted.  
  
No, he told himself firmly. These were not productive thoughts. He’d done everything he could. It wasn’t his fault. The fault lay squarely with the bastards who… Who… It was **their** fault. Not his. And it wasn’t his fault that he’d survived when… It wasn’t his fault. That was what the counsellors had told him, over and over and over again. And he even believed it, mostly.  
  
So why did he still feel so guilty?  
  
He shook his head, like the physical action would help to clear his head. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely unfitting that his thoughts should take a maudlin tone, he mused. He was, after all, in a cemetery.  
  
There was a light dusting of snow and frost on the ground, crunching underfoot as he strode unerringly toward his destination. Once upon a time, he would have felt the urge to wrap his scarf a little tighter around his neck, maybe even shivered a little at the biting wind. At least, he assumed it was biting. It wasn’t like he really felt the cold any more. His changed body was just too good at adapting. The coat and scarf were little more than protective camouflage; a way not to stand out amidst the similarly bundled-up people going about their business. He could strip naked if he wanted and not feel so much as a slight chill. Against his will, his lips twitched a little at the thought of the dressing down he’d get from Piggy if he did anything like that. No, he told himself firmly. He should think of her as ‘Director Piggot,’ now. He was the team leader; he had to set an example.  
  
Team leader. How the hell did that happen? Well, he knew **how** , of course: Rory had aged out; gone on to join the Protectorate and left this hot potato squarely in Carlos’ lap. No matter how unready he felt for the responsibility. No matter how little he felt like he knew what he was doing. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he could fake it convincingly. Part of the problem was that the other Wards knew him as a friend, first; as a peer. So now, trying to get them to see him as a leader… It was hard. Really hard. Dean was a great support most of the time, but even he had his bad days, and he’d learned the hard way not to push him on one of those. Chris and Dennis still clearly saw Carlos as the guy they played computer games with. This meant they often tended to treat any orders he tried to give as mere suggestions until and unless he tried to put his foot down. And then they just thought he was being an asshole, which he didn’t want at all. Missy, at least, seemed to accept that he was in charge, but she didn’t even bother to hide the fact that she didn’t like it. She clearly thought he was doing a terrible job, and that she’d do a better one. (He tried not to admit to himself that he thought she might be right.) As for Shadow Stalker… Well, the less said about her the better.  
  
And now there was Astrid.  
  
He sighed heavily.  
  
Coming to a halt before one grave in particular, he crouched down and brushed off the headstone, tracing out the letters and numbers carved into its face with his fingers. It was a familiar ritual by now; he’d done it countless times before.  
  
Omar Almedina  
5th June 1993 to 8th October 2008  
Beloved son, brother, grandson, nephew, great-nephew, cousin and friend  
Taken from us too soon, but never to be forgotten  
  
He barely even felt bitter anymore that the nearest that inscription came to describing what Omar had been to him was ‘friend.’ Not best friend. Not boyfriend. Not the person who made his heart beat faster whenever their hands touched; whose smile had seemed to light up his whole world. It wasn’t like he blamed Omar’s parents for erasing the reason why their son was dead in the ground.  
  
But he was spiralling into unproductive thoughts again, and he needed to make himself stop. Omar wouldn’t have wanted him to blame himself. If he was here right now — God, if only — he would tell him: ‘Why waste such a handsome face on a frown? Bring some joy to the world, man. Smile like God intended.’ Despite himself, he felt his lips curve up a little at the corners. The words were so clear in his mind that it was as if Omar himself was standing right there; corny and over the top and yet somehow utterly, openly genuine. Just like he’d been in life. Not that he’d been a saint — that perpetual peppiness could get a little wearing sometimes, and God knew he could be selfish on occasion — but Carlos had liked (maybe even loved) him anyway. And sure, he’d known that they were only fifteen, that the odds were good they wouldn’t last even until sixteen, but back then it had felt like they had forever.  
  
Life, it seemed, had other plans. And now Omar was gone and Carlos was a cape. A Ward. Less than a year away from joining the Protectorate. And he knew that revenge was another of those unproductive thoughts; he did. He should be trying to move on, not to dwell; to think healthy, happy thoughts. But still…  
  
Still.  
  
There was a part of him that was counting the days until the powers that be stopped trying to keep him safe. Until he was free to go out and actually make a real difference. Until he could make E88 realise that Brockton Bay wasn’t theirs any more.  
  
But that was still in the future. For the moment, he had more immediate problems to deal with.  
  
He sighed and got to his feet, glancing around to make sure there was no one with earshot before reaching out to rest his hand lightly on the headstone.  
  
“It’s been one of those days, Omar…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The sharp rapping on the connecting door startled Carlos out of his thoughts of next week’s patrol schedules and who had pissed him off enough to deserve Shadow Stalker as a partner.  
  
“Be out in a minute,” he called.  
  
“Are you decent?” Eric’s voice sounded distinctly mischievous, and Carlos was less than surprised when the door was flung wide open before he’d even drawn breath to reply. Eric looked him up and down, and then gave an exaggerated frown. “Oh. You are. What a pity.”  
  
Carlos rolled his eyes. “So sorry to disappoint you,” he said, fighting back a grin. He dragged the brush through his hair one last time, setting it aside just in time to find himself with an armful of his boyfriend.  
  
“You can always make it up to me,” Eric murmured, and then kissed him, driving all thoughts of what he’d been about to say out of Carlos’ mind. Okay, he thought distantly, as he enthusiastically returned the kiss, maybe letting himself be talked into this weekend away had been a good idea after all. He couldn’t help making a small disappointed noise when Eric broke the kiss and stepped back again, smirking in that utterly infuriating (and, he had to admit to himself, really rather sexy) way of his. “That’ll do for a start,” he said, sounding distinctly smug. And, Carlos was gratified to note, just a little bit breathless. “Now, if you’ve quite finished primping and preening, we should probably get going if we’re going to make our reservation.”  
  
“I thought you liked me primping and preening,” Carlos retorted, trying to hide how self-conscious he felt. “You’re the one who told me I had to make a special effort this weekend.”  
  
“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it,” Eric murmured, dragging his eyes over Carlos in a way that made him feel even more self-conscious. (And maybe wonder if they really needed to go **out** to dinner after all. Maybe this place wasn’t quite fancy enough to have room service, but he was pretty sure they’d be able to find a local takeaway that would deliver.) Eric suddenly pointed a finger at him. “No,” he said, warningly.  
  
“What?” Carlos asked, a little defensively, crossing the room to pick up his coat from the bed.  
  
“I know that look,” Eric said and, not for the first time, Carlos wondered if his boyfriend had some kind of secret thinker power. “And no, we are not going to hole up in one of our hotel rooms with take away food. You promised me we could go out to dinner like civilised people.”  
  
“We went out last night,” Carlos protested.  
  
“Like civilised people, I said,” Eric said, clearly unmoved. “The nearest that bar came to culture was the mould growing on the window sills.”  
  
“It had great music, though,” Carlos countered.  
  
“Music that you’d barely even dance to.”  
  
“I danced!”  
  
“Only when I practically dragged you out onto the floor. And even then, you didn’t really dance **with** me so much as in my vague vicinity.”  
  
“But-“  
  
“Look,” Eric said, the seriousness of his tone stopped Carlos in his tracks. “I get it; I do. I know you’re uncomfortable with people knowing you’re dating a guy.”  
  
“That’s not it, really,” Carlos said, but the protest sounded half-hearted even to his own ears. “It’s not like I’m in the closet or anything. Everyone important to me knows. I just… I don’t see why we have to put our relationship on display to all and sundry.”  
  
There was a tight feeling in his chest and stomach; it reminded him of back when he used to actually suffer from indigestion. He’d known it was only a matter of time until they had this conversation. He’d been dreading it, actually; had tried to put it out of his mind and just enjoy what they had. But now that it was finally here, he found himself panicking in a way that he really hadn’t expected.  
  
With a distant feeling of surprise, he realised that somewhere along the way he’d gone from thinking of this as just a casual fling as something that could, potentially, be more.  
  
(Why did that thought feel like a betrayal?)  
  
Eric studied him for a long moment, and he tried to brace himself for the inevitable: ‘This isn’t working out.’ But when his boyfriend — Eric was still that, even if not for very much longer — finally spoke, what he actually said was:  
  
“We can stay in if you’d prefer.”  
  
Carlos stared at him.  
  
“What?” he asked, stupidly.  
  
Eric gave him a lopsided smile and wandered over to put his arms around Carlos, who found himself leaning into the embrace.  
  
“I’m not an asshole,” Eric told him. “ Well,” he amended, smirking. “I am, but I like to think that’s at least part of the reason you’re dating me. However.” The smirk faded, and he was now as serious as Carlos had ever seen him. “I get that you’re wound up about being out in public — pun definitely intended — and I get why. Fucking nazis, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Carlos said, after a moment.  
  
Eric sighed. “That was the entire reason we decided to spend the weekend away from Brockton Bay, wasn’t it? So we could just be together without having to worry about running into E88 thugs. And I think it would be good for us to remind ourselves that we have a right to, well, be ourselves. I think it would be good for you. But I’m not going to force the issue. If you’re really not comfortable going out to dinner with me, well, I guess we can stay in. But.” He poked Carlos in the chest, not entirely gently. “I warn you now: we **will** be ordering from the most highly-rated place that will actually deliver, and you **are** going to have to lose the shirt. If I don’t get a fancy restaurant, it’s only fair that you distract me from my undoubtedly sub-par food by providing a little eye-candy.”  
  
Carlos found himself startled into a laugh. He leaned in and kissed Eric, who — judging by the warmth of his response — seemed to have no objections.  
  
“Don’t worry,” he said softly, despite the way his heart beat a little faster for more reasons than just the kiss. “I wouldn’t dream of trying to deny you your fancy dinner in a nice restaurant. What kind of a boyfriend would I be if I went back on my word like that?”  
  
Eric pulled back and studied him thoughtfully.  
  
“You’re sure?” he asked, quietly.  
  
Carlos nodded. “Yeah,” he said, even though that wasn’t entirely true. (Even though he couldn’t shake the fear that the wrong people might see them; might try to teach them a lesson. That Eric might get hurt, or worse, just for going to dinner with his boyfriend.)  
  
The moment seemed to stretch like taffy as they looked into each other’s eyes, and Carlos felt the urge to say something unwise, the words right there on the tip of his tongue.  
  
Fortunately, Eric broke the mood by smirking lasciviously and saying: “Of course, I can think of certain benefits to spending a quiet evening in.”  
  
Carlos coughed awkwardly, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the pressure of Eric’s body against his.  
  
“Um,” he began, not really knowing what to say. “You know…” Dammit! This was a bad idea; he knew it was a bad idea. And yet…  
  
And yet.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry,” Eric said, sighing dramatically. He planted a surprisingly chaste kiss on Carlos’ lips and stepped away. (Even though he knew it was probably for the best, Carlos couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed at the loss of contact. Okay, maybe a little more than a little. Okay, maybe a lot.) “I know you’re saving yourself for marriage, or whatever. But you can’t blame a boy for dreaming.”  
  
“That’s not…” He started, and then stopped. How exactly was he supposed to say that he’d undergone some fairly major physiological changes and he was worried about outing himself as a parahuman if he let anyone get in a position to get up close and personal with him? Answer: he wasn’t. Not until and unless he was prepared to share that particular secret. Which he wasn’t, quite. Not yet. Maybe that made him a bad boyfriend, but he just wasn’t **sure**. Not yet. He was only seventeen, for crying out loud! And he couldn’t say any of this to Eric, so he sighed heavily and fell back on his usual line. “It’s complicated, that’s all. I’m still kind of new to all of this, and I want to take things slowly.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Carlos,” Eric assured him, flashing a lopsided smile. “Like I said: I’m an asshole, but I’m not **that** much of an asshole. I’m just winding you up. Which I wouldn’t do nearly so much if you didn’t get so wonderfully flustered.” He pulled out his phone with a flourish, making a big production out of checking the time. “Anyway, time is rapidly ticking on, and I believe I was promised a fancy dinner. So, shall we?”  
  
“We shall,” Carlos agreed and, not stopping to think about what he was doing, he offered his arm.  
  
Eric raised his eyebrows, but accepted. “What a gentleman,” he said, lightly.  
  
“I try,” Carlos replied, trying to tell himself that it would be fine, that they were just going to have a pleasant evening out together. That they wouldn’t have any trouble.  
  
It would be fine. It would.  
  
Still, he was half-relieved when his phone rang before they could step out of the door.  
  
“Oh, **please** tell me that’s not work,” Eric groaned.  
  
“It is, I’m afraid,” Carlos said ruefully, noting the PRT number. “I, uh, I need to take this. Sorry.”  
  
“Go, answer your capitalist masters,” Eric said, waving a hand at him as he dropped his arm stepped out of the door. “I’ll go and sit in the car in the hope that we actually will get to dinner tonight.”  
  
“Be there as soon as I can,” Carlos told him. As soon as the door had swung all the way closed, he put the phone to his ear. “Hello?” he asked, cautiously.  
  
“Hi Aegis,” came a familiar voice, after a moment. “Cav here. I’m sorry to disturb you at the weekend. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”  
  
“I was just about to go out to dinner,” Carlos said, sitting on the bed.  
  
“Ah. Well, my apologies to your young man, then.” Cav did actually sound genuinely sorry. But he wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important, so…  
  
“Is there an emergency? Do you need me to come in? I’m afraid I’m out of town at the moment, but I could probably be there in two or three hours, depending on traffic.”  
  
“No, no emergency,” Cav assured him. “This is more in the way of a heads up. I just thought you’d want to know, Gallant just brought in a potential new Ward. She’s staying in the building tonight, so I thought you might want to stop by and say hello if you were around. She’ll still be here tomorrow, though, so there’s no point in leaving your date in the lurch to rush back. Anyway, unless I miss my guess, the poor kid will probably be asleep by the time you could get down here. She looked practically dead on her feet.”  
  
“A new Ward?” Carlos frowned, something tugging at his memory. “Is this the girl from the Boardwalk? The one Gallant spoke to last weekend?”  
  
Director Piggot had been less than pleased with Dean for not bringing her in then and there, he recalled. But Dean had been quite firm about the fact that she wasn’t prepared to come willingly, and that he wasn’t going to try to force the issue. Carlos had backed him up, of course. If Dean said that pressing this girl wouldn’t have helped — and may, in fact, have made things worse — then he trusted his friend’s judgement. The director wasn’t happy with either of them, but there wasn’t an awful lot she could do at that point.  
  
“That’s the one,” Cav confirmed. “Her name’s Astrid, or at least that’s the name she’s given. No cape name as yet.” His voice turned grim as he continued. “She’s run away from home, and given how bruised and battered she looks, I can’t say that I blame her.”  
  
“I see,” Carlos said, his mind reeling as a vague feeling of anxiety settled over him. How was he supposed to deal with someone like that? He wasn’t ready for this. He was only seventeen! Sure, he’d taken the PRT course on how to talk to victims of domestic violence, but that had been in the context of stopping a crime in progress. They hadn’t said a damn thing about how to deal with a Ward who’d run away from an abusive home. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. He was going to do something wrong, to put his foot in it somehow and make things worse. He was going to upset her or freak her out or **something**. Something horrible and awful. He tried to clamp down on his spiralling panic, to slow his rapid pulse and breathing as he tried to think of something intelligent to say. “Are you sure she’s going to join? It sounds like now might not exactly be the best time for her to make that kind of decision.”  
  
Although, he couldn’t help thinking, the PRT hadn’t exactly balked at signing him up when he’d been half out of his mind with grief and guilt and rage. Ms Grant had pitched a fit about that, as he recalled, no matter how much he’d tried to tell her that it was fine; that he **wanted** to join the fight against E88 and all the other gangs. Somehow, that hadn’t seemed to calm her down one bit. And it wasn’t like he regretted his decision, not really, but sometimes he couldn’t help wondering… Would he have felt differently if he’d been given a few weeks to think about it? To fully understand what it was he was agreeing to?  
  
He didn’t think so, not really. But still, there were the occasional moments of doubt. Like when Eric asked him about college majors, or when his sister Marisol announced that she wanted to go into politics, or when his brother Emilio talked about his plans to take a year out from college and backpack around the world. Or when his mother and father talked meaningfully about grandchildren.  
  
Did he really want to spend the rest of his life fighting a war he signed up for when he was fifteen and distraught with loss?  
  
But there was no point second-guessing himself now. He’d made his choice, and he didn’t regret it for a moment. He had powers, which meant he had a responsibility to step up and try to make the world a better place.  
  
To stop other people suffering like he had. Like Omar’s parents had. To stop E88 and their ilk from poisoning this city even more than they already had.  
  
Simply doing nothing wasn’t an option.  
  
Cav sighed, and he could hear the man’s chair creak, the sound painting a vivid mental image of the way he was undoubtedly leaning back in it to stare at the ceiling.  
  
“I’d be surprised if she didn’t,” he said quietly, and Carlos found himself nodding. Honestly, so would he. If she’d made it as far as the PRT building… Yeah. Right. It looked like they were getting a new Ward.  
  
“Thanks for the heads up,” he said. “Hopefully I’ll be able to catch up with her tomorrow, before the briefing.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Cav said, and Carlos could hear the smile in his voice as he added: “Enjoy your date, Carlos. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  
  
Carlos snorted. “I’ve heard the stories, Cav. I’m not convinced there **is** anything you wouldn’t do.”  
  
“Hey! Who’s been telling tales out of school?” Cav asked indignantly. “Don’t they know I have a reputation to maintain? How am I supposed to command respect among you young whippersnappers if your ears are polluted by unclean tales of my misspent youth?”  
  
“So that means there **are** stories,” Carlos quipped, grinning. “And someone in the PRT must know them, or you wouldn’t be so worried. Good to know.”  
  
“Why you little,” Cav started, but he was laughing too hard to sound even vaguely threatening. “Alright, you got me. Just… Don’t say anything to Izzy, okay? She’d never stop asking for details, and I’d like to at least hang onto the little bit of moral high ground I actually have with my daughter.”  
  
“Your sordid secrets are safe with me, don’t worry,” Carlos assured him. “Although I can’t speak for the rest of my team.”  
  
“So I should keep her away from Clockblocker, then,” Cav said dryly. “Duly noted.”  
  
“Probably good advice generally, in all honesty,” Carlos sighed, and then glanced over at the bedside clock. “Listen, Cav, fun as this is, as it’s not actually an emergency, I really should get going.” If they set off in the next few minutes, they should still be on time for their reservation. Which, honestly, was better than he’d been expecting when his phone rang.  
  
“Go,” Cav told him. “Have fun. Enjoy your evening.”  
  
They said their goodbyes, and Carlos stood up, trying to push aside the worry hovering over him as easily as he shoved his phone back in his pocket. He was only partially successful.  
  
Eric looked up as he got into the passenger side of the car, uncertainty briefly visible on his face before it was replaced by a somewhat cynical smile.  
  
“So, is this where you tell me you’re going to have to cut our weekend short?” he asked lightly.  
  
Carlos grinned. Before he could change his mind, he leaned over and kissed Eric thoroughly, uncountably pleased at the way the other boy’s breath hitched as he pulled back and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “We can if you want to,” he told him, feeling a little shy all of a sudden. “But, personally, I was hoping to take my boyfriend out to dinner in a fancy restaurant.”  
  
“Oh,” Eric said. “Well.” He smiled, and it seemed to light up his whole face. “I think I can get on board with that.”  
  
And as they drove off into the night, Carlos tried to tell himself that the kiss was the only reason why he felt breathless, the only reason why it felt like his heart was racing. That he wasn’t at all nervous at being out in public with his boyfriend.  
  
Maybe if he told himself that enough times, he’d even believe it.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Carlos wandered through the Hub, looking for someone to vent to. Dennis was ensconced on the sofa, barely even looking up from his game to call out a distracted greeting. Carlos returned the greeting and kept on walking. There was no sign of Dean yet — his first choice for a sympathetic ear — but Chris was pottering around in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich.  
  
“Hi Chris,” Carlos said.  
  
“Hey,” Chris replied, waving a peanut butter-smeared knife in his vague direction. “Want a sandwich?”  
  
Carlos looked at the array of jellies, jams and other spreads set out on the countertop and just about refrained from pulling a face.  
  
“No thanks, I’m good,” he said. “How’s it going?”  
  
“Pretty good, thanks,” Chris said cheerfully, applying a layer of something purple to his sandwich. Naturally, he used the same knife. Carlos came very close to taking it out of his hand and fetching him a clean one, but he managed to resist the urge. “I think I’ve figure out a way to solve that overheating problem I was complaining about, but I’d better not get into it now or we’ll be stuck here for the rest of the day.”  
  
“That’s good,” Carlos replied absently, pouring himself a coffee. “I know that was a tricky one.” Not that he was entirely clear on the details, but he figured Chris could use all the encouragement he could get. “Well done on solving it.”  
  
“Oh, it wasn’t anything really.” Chris sounded modest, but Carlos could tell he was pleased at the praise. He made a mental note to prod Dennis into asking Chris about his work after the briefing. “How was your weekend?”  
  
“Pretty good, thanks,” Carlos said, smiling at the memory. “I spent it out of town.” Part of him wanted to leave it there, but he made himself add: “With Eric.”  
  
Chris was safe, he reassured himself. The Wards all were. Anyway, it wasn’t like they didn’t already know. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he was dating a guy. He wasn’t in the closet or anything. (He wondered if the fear would ever go away, or if it would always be there, lurking at the back of his mind, waiting to pop up again and remind him that he was never, ever safe. Not really. Not as long as he was in Brockton Fucking Bay, where the nazis roamed the streets with impunity.)  
  
“That’s your boyfriend?” Chris asked, and Carlos tensed a little, searching Chris’ face. But all he saw there was innocent curiosity. (No judgement. No disgust. No hatred.)  
  
“Yeah,” he said, trying to make himself relax.  
  
“Is it serious?” Chris asked, most of his attention seemingly on the construction of his apparently many-layered — Carlos counted at least four — sandwich.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said, a little surprised to hear himself add: “Maybe.”  
  
Huh. That was… interesting. Not bad interesting, just… interesting. It seemed he had some thinking to do.  
  
“Cool,” Chris said, giving him a smile.  
  
He smiled back. “Yeah.”  
  
Chris started clearing away the jars. Carlos gave him a hand, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe down the surface afterwards. To this day, he couldn’t understand how one person could make so much mess. Certainly not when making a sandwich.  
  
“Thanks,” Chris said sheepishly, then abruptly stopped still, looking startled. “Wait. If you were out of town, does that mean you don’t know about the new Ward? Or, potential new Ward, at any rate.”  
  
“Cav gave me a heads up yesterday,” Carlos told him, taking a sip of his coffee. He felt like he needed the fortification. Not that the caffeine really did that much for him any more, but that wasn’t the point. “And she’s not a potential any more: as of just over an hour ago, she’s officially one of us.”  
  
“Oh. Cool,” Chris said. “She seemed… nice.”  
  
“I just met her,” Carlos said. He took another drink of his coffee, half-wishing it was something stronger. Not that he could actually get drunk — and he’d made one or two **really** quite determined efforts since his change — but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was way, **way** out of his depth here. “She was very…” Antsy? On edge? Really uncomfortable around him? “Formal.”  
  
“Oh?” Chris sounded confused. “She seemed friendly enough yesterday. Um….” He flushed and looked down, mumbling the next words. “Until I put my foot in it, anyway.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Carlos asked, frowning. Not for the first time, he wished he’d been able to get hold of Dean earlier to get his opinion. Oh well. Maybe he’d have the chance to catch up before the briefing. He really hoped so, anyway.  
  
“I, ah…” Chris flushed deeper, briefly meeting Carlos’ eyes before looking away again. “Well, she looked really banged up, and she’d mentioned fighting someone, so I kind of assumed… I asked her if she’d been out fighting bad guys. You know, like doing the independent hero thing.” He took a deep breath. “I didn’t realise that her dad had hit her.”  
  
Carlos blinked, a little surprised. “She told you that?”  
  
“Yeah. Me, Missy and Dennis. And, well, I figure she probably told Dean as well, or he at least figured it out.” He shrugged awkwardly. “She didn’t stick around long after that, and I can’t say that I blame her.” He sighed heavily. “I’m such an idiot.”  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Carlos tried to reassure him, the words coming automatically as he thought back to what he’d seen of Astrid’s injuries. Her face hadn’t looked too bad — well, what he could see of it with the mask — but her arms… Yeah, he could see why Chris had assumed she must have been out fighting villains. _Dammit, Dean!_ he thought, knowing he was probably being unfair, but unable to help the brief flare of frustration. _You couldn’t give the others a little more of a clue as to what to expect?_  
  
_You couldn’t warn **me**?_  
  
“Yeah, well,” muttered Chris, sounding deeply unconvinced by the reassurance. “I still feel pretty bad about it. I think I’m just going to try and keep my mouth shut until I’m sure I can avoid putting both feet in it.”  
  
“That seems a little extreme,” Carlos said gently, trying not to smile. Not that it was really funny, not really, but there was just something slightly comical about Chris’ over the top earnestness. Not that he would ever tell him that, of course.  
  
“You didn’t see the way she froze up,” Chris said unhappily, and then sighed, making an obvious effort to push aside his misery. “So,” he said, in an almost determinedly interested tone. “What do you mean by ‘formal’?”  
  
“She called me ‘Sir’.” Carlos shifted uncomfortably at the memory; at how… distressed she’d seemed when she thought she’d offended him. “It was really weird.”  
  
Chris blinked. “That is kind of odd, but I would’ve thought you’d be pleased that at least one Ward is actually prepared to respect you as a leader.” He gave a half-smile. “It’s not like you haven’t complained about the rest of us often enough.”  
  
“Well… Maybe,” Carlos muttered, fighting not to sound defensive. “But I’d feel better about it if I didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that she’s only being respectful because she thinks I’m going to hit her if she isn’t.”  
  
“I’m sure she doesn’t think that,” Chris protested. “I mean, you’re kind of a teddy bear, Carlos. Um, no offence.”  
  
“None taken,” Carlos said dryly, rolling his eyes. “But she doesn’t **know** me. And I’m told I can cut quite an imposing figure on occasion.”  
  
“Who told you that?” Chris didn’t even try to conceal his scepticism. “You know your boyfriend doesn’t count, right?”  
  
“It wasn’t…” Carlos started to protest, then thought better of it. “Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. The point is, she seemed really uncomfortable when I told her she didn’t have to call me ‘Sir,’ so she’s probably going to keep doing it, at least for a while.”  
  
“Oh no,” Chris said in a deadpan voice. “Someone treating you with respect. How will you cope?”  
  
“Don’t be an ass,” Carlos told him, a little tightly. “Just… Don’t say anything to her about it, alright? God knows she’s probably feeling self-conscious enough right now, and I figure it’s not going to help matters to bring it up publicly.”  
  
Curious though he was to know what kind of logic would make a, what, seventeen? Sixteen? Would make a teenage girl think she had to call a seventeen year old guy ‘Sir.’ Even though he was technically in charge. Still, he couldn’t help thinking, somewhat bleakly, she’d no doubt realise soon enough that he didn’t have the first clue what he was doing, and then it she’d switch to either indifference or barely concealed contempt. Or, if she turned out to be more like Shadow Stalker — something he honestly doubted, given their limited interaction so far — maybe completely unconcealed contempt.  
  
“I won’t say a word, I promise,” Chris assured him. “Um, do you want me to pass the message onto the others?”  
  
“Please,” Carlos said gratefully. “I mean, I’ll probably tell them myself if I get the chance, but better safe than sorry.”  
  
And, honestly, he wouldn’t exactly mind not having to raise this subject with Dennis himself. He dreaded to think of the kind of mockery his so-called friend would send his way. He could imagine it now: ‘Someone treating you with respect? What is this foul sorcery? Yeah, I can totally see why it would freak you the fuck out, oh glorious leader.’  
  
“Ah…” Chris said, sounding distinctly unsure of himself all of a sudden.  
  
“What is it?” Carlos wondered, his mind already skipping ahead to the briefing.  
  
“You didn’t want me to talk to Shadow Stalker, did you?”  
  
Carlos sighed. “No, I wouldn’t ask that of you, don’t worry.”  
  
“Oh, thank God for that,” Chris muttered. He winced. “I hope she takes it easy on Astrid. The poor girl must be having such a hard time at the moment. She doesn’t need Shadow Stalker needling her on top of everything else.”  
  
“Most likely Shadow Stalker will just ignore her,” Carlos said, trying to reassure himself as much as Chris. “It’ll be fine, I’m sure. Anyway, the rest of us will be there to run interference. Right?”  
  
“Er, right,” Chris agreed. And if there was a certain reluctance in his voice, Carlos couldn’t really find it in his heart to blame him in the slightest.  
  
Anyway, he told himself. There was no sense in trying to borrow trouble. All he had to do was get through the briefing without incident.  
  
He could do that, right?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

_You had to think it, didn’t you?_ Carlos thought to himself, crossly. _You had to go and tempt fate._  
  
Dammit!  
  
Oh, he wasn’t exactly surprised at Shadow Stalker’s blatant disrespect of himself. And yes, maybe it would have been best to just ignore it, but she just pissed him off **so** much. And to do that in front of the one person who had the chance to form her own opinion of him and his leadership… There was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that it had been deliberate. Well, he thought maliciously, maybe a week of console duty would make her think twice about challenging him like that in future. Hell, maybe he’d make it two weeks anyway. It wasn’t like she would respect him any less for it.  
  
Honestly, though, he wasn’t holding out that much hope that her behaviour would improve.  
  
He wasn’t even really surprised that she took the opportunity to express open disdain for Astrid. She’d never made any particular secret about the fact that she held the rest of the Wards in utter contempt. Why would that be any different for the new girl?  
  
What he **hadn’t** been expecting, however, was for Astrid to challenge Shadow Stalker to a fight. Sorry, to a sparring match. Sure, Astrid may not have been the frail-looking waif he’d half been expecting to see when Cav told him she’d fled an abusive home, but still. She was clearly in less than stellar physical shape and, well, this was Shadow Stalker they were talking about. There was no way in hell that this was a good idea. But he found himself oddly reluctant to forbid it when this was the first time he’d seen her express anything other than tightly controlled, respectful obedience in his presence. He didn’t want her to think she couldn’t speak up when something or someone — mainly Shadow Stalker, if he was honest, although Dennis was probably up there too — pissed her off.  
  
Anyway, he was sure he’d be able to keep things from getting out of hand. If the worst came to the worst, he could always wade in and physically pull the two of them apart — or, more likely, pull Shadow Stalker off Astrid — although he obviously hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  
  
He watched Astrid as she headed off in the direction of the rooms, presumably to get changed into her gym clothes.  
  
“New Girl’s gonna get creamed,” Dennis sighed, sounding more regretful than Carlos would have expected, given that Astrid had just stuck his feet to the floor. Still, he didn’t really tend to hold grudges, and he always had demonstrated a certain respect for the creative use of powers in a well-executed prank. And, Carlos had to hand it to Astrid, her little trick had been as funny as it had been unexpected.  
  
(He made a mental note to send the photo onto Rory, who would undoubtedly get a kick out of it. It wasn’t like Dennis had behaved any better when he was team leader than he did for Carlos.)  
  
Based on their interactions up to that point, he wouldn’t have thought her capable of that kind of frivolity. He just felt awful remembering how she’d flinched when he’d told her that she shouldn’t mess with the Wards HQ. Honestly, he’d rather she thought he was a ‘teddy bear,’ like the others apparently did, than whatever it was she thought of him right now. But maybe that would change when she got to know him a little better.  
  
At least, that was what he hoped.  
  
“Maybe it won’t be that bad.” Missy sounded like she really wanted to believe that. She didn’t sound like she actually did. “She did seem pretty confident. And you did say she had ninja skills.”  
  
Carlos blinked. That was news to him. He started to ask what it was about, but Chris was already speaking.  
  
“It’s Shadow Stalker,” he said flatly. “It will be that bad.”  
  
“I’ll be there to keep an eye on things,” Carlos interrupted, before the doom and gloom spiral could continue. “No one’s going to get creamed if I have anything to say about it.”  
  
“Actually,” Dean said; the first words he’d spoken since Astrid had left the room. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”  
  
“What?” Carlos’ eyes widened with surprise. “Are you insane? You have met Shadow Stalker, right? You think I should trust her to keep things friendly without supervision?”  
  
Dean started to say something, and then frowned at the other three who were blatantly eavesdropping.  
  
“Let’s take this somewhere private,” he said, turning and striding off before Carlos could so much as open his mouth. He shrugged and followed, ignoring Dennis’ faux-whispered:  
  
“Spoilsports!”  
  
Dean led him to his own office.  
  
“What is it?” Carlos asked cautiously, closing the door behind them. He couldn’t help noticing that Dean seemed a little… agitated.  
  
“Every time you paid any attention whatsoever to Astrid, her stress levels went through the roof,” he said bluntly.  
  
Carlos frowned, but he couldn’t honestly say he was surprised.  
  
“I pretty much figured out that one for myself,” he said.  
  
“She reacted more or less the same way when you paid attention to Shadow Stalker. Especially when you were very clearly pissed off with her.” Dean smiled mirthlessly. “Didn’t really need to be an empath to pick up on that one, by the way. Pretty sure Astrid picked up on it, certainly. And, if you’ll forgive the crude phrasing, it scared the shit out of her.”  
  
Carlos blinked. “She didn’t think I was angry with her, did she?”  
  
“Empath, not telepath,” Dean said. “But, best guess? She was expecting you to lash out physically at Shadow Stalker.”  
  
“I would **never** ,” Carlos began, horrified. Dean made calming motions with his hands, like he was trying to soothe a distressed animal.  
  
“Easy there,” he murmured. “ **I** know that, but **she** doesn’t. Honestly, it has more to do with her than you, so there’s no point feeling guilty about it.”  
  
Carlos started to ask how he knew that, but then subsided, feeling extremely foolish.  
  
Empath. Right.  
  
“So, you think it’ll massively freak her out if I go and supervise this sparring match?” he asked, hesitantly.  
  
“Almost certainly,” Dean said. “And if she’s fighting Shadow Stalker, I hardly think it’s going to help matters for her to be distracted by worrying about pissing you off.”  
  
Carlos turned that thought over in his mind, frowning.  
  
“But what if things get out of hand?” he asked, uncertainly. “You really think Shadow Stalker’s going to play nice? And Astrid seemed pretty angry with her. What if she doesn’t play nice?” Although, privately, he was much more worried about Shadow Stalker not keeping things friendly than he was about Astrid doing the same.  
  
“Shadow Stalker wasn’t actually pissed off, just amused,” Dean said. “Sure, she’s almost certainly going to try to humiliate Astrid, but I didn’t get a sense that she was planning on taking things too far. Usual caveats apply, of course. And as for Astrid…” He frowned. “Her emotions are pretty volatile right now. She gets angry really easily.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Really, **really** easily. But it also fades quickly. She was pissed off when she challenged Shadow Stalker, and downright nervous when you seemed like you might forbid it, but as soon as it was definitely going ahead…” He shrugged. “She seemed to calm down a lot. I think she’s just looking to blow off a little steam.” He frowned a little. “And this is pure speculation, mind you, but I get the sense that she’s not exactly new to sparring.”  
  
“Hmm…” Carlos thought about it. He still wasn’t a hundred per cent convinced, but… “You really think it would be better for me not to keep an eye on them?”  
  
Dean sighed loudly. “I can’t give you certainties,” he warned. “But based on my read of the individuals and the situation… I don’t think Shadow Stalker’s likely to escalate too far unless Astrid really pushes her. I think there’s a good chance you’ll freak Astrid out if you’re there, and freaking her out might well make her push harder. Also, let’s not forget the fact that Shadow Stalker is bound to test boundaries if you’re keeping an eye on things, which might well lead to more escalation. My best guess is that, overall, things will go worse if you’re there. Please note that it is just a best guess, though, so feel free to disregard it if you want to.”  
  
“No,” Carlos said slowly, reluctantly. “What you’re saying makes sense. I guess I’ll leave them to it. But I will be checking up on them afterwards.”  
  
“That is definitely wise,” Dean agreed. He gave a wry grin. “Who knows? Maybe the two of them will become friends.”  
  
“Very funny,” Carlos told him, opening the door. “We’ll have to tell Dennis he has competition for team wiseass.”  
  
“Stranger things have happened,” Dean pointed out. “Just saying.”  
  
“Stranger than Shadow Stalker making a friend on the team?” Carlos asked sceptically.  
  
Dean shrugged as he headed outside. “The one thing I’ve learned since getting my powers,” he told Carlos, seeming strangely serious. “Is that people can always surprise you. Always.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Dean might be right about people in general, Carlos mused, but but some people never actually did surprise you. Much though you sometimes wished they would. To that end, there was someone with whom he really should take the opportunity to have a quiet word. No matter how little he wanted to. He sighed softly to himself, the burden of leadership seeming to lie particularly heavy on his shoulders right at this moment. He really, really hated this part of the job.  
  
Not least when it involved certain people.  
  
After parting ways with Dean, he went back to poke his head into the Hub, searching for his target.  
  
“Dennis,” he called out, trying to keep the weariness from his voice. “A word in my office.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” the offending individual called out absently, his attention apparently on some kind of… Was that money changing hands between him and Chris? Were they… Were they betting on something? Carlos made a very conscious decision that, whatever it was, he absolutely did not want to know. He would undoubtedly be happier not knowing. **Everyone** would be happier with him not knowing. Because, if he didn’t **know** anything about it, then he didn’t have to **do** anything about it. Whatever it was. Because he hadn’t seen a thing. Or heard a thing. Nuh uh. No way. Not a single thing.  
  
“ **Now** , Dennis,” he said, aiming for ‘firm’ rather than ‘petulant.’ He thought he pulled it off. Mostly. Certainly Dennis quickly wrapped up whatever it was he was doing — _Lalala, I can’t hear you_ — and headed over at what was, for him, quite a turn of speed.  
  
“Someone’s in trou-ble,” Chris sing-songed, doing a passable imitation of Dennis and making no particular effort to keep his voice down.  
  
“Good,” Missy all-but growled; a tone of voice he almost envied. When he tried that, he was sure he just sounded faintly ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as a seventeen year-old guy envying a thirteen year-old girl, he supposed.  
  
“Well, that’s just charming, that is,” Dennis muttered, looking at Carlos like he was half-expecting sympathy. Carlos just looked at him flatly until he sighed and said: “What’s up, Chief?”  
  
“In my office,” Carlos told him, turning and striding off without waiting for a reply.  
  
“That doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Dennis muttered, but he did, Carlos was relieved to note, actually follow him to his office. Of course, the effect was somewhat spoiled when he casually took a seat without so much as waiting to be told he could, lounging there casually like he didn’t have a care in the world. Carlos very briefly considered remaining on his feet to do the whole looming ominously thing, but immediately dismissed the thought as overly petty. Tempting, yes, but oh so petty.  
  
Anyway, he should probably save little tricks like that for when he really needed them. No point blowing his entire — if somewhat pitiful — arsenal of ‘leadership’ techniques in one go. Honestly, just maintaining the proper tone was probably going to be difficult enough as it was, without having to worry about the right body language as well. He just settled himself behind his desk, looking at Dennis with what he hoped was a suitably forbidding expression.  
  
“What you said to Astrid was out of line,” he said sternly.  
  
“Which time?” Dennis shot back, seemingly unfazed by Carlos’ clear displeasure.  
  
(It was clear, wasn’t it? He wasn’t making this sound like something frivolous, was he? And… And he wasn’t going too far the other way? Making a mountain out of a molehill?)  
  
 _(Dammit!)_  
  
(Leadership was **hard**.)  
  
Despite his best efforts, Carlos found himself groaning aloud. He did, however, manage to resist the urge to bang his head on the desk.  
  
“The fact that you even have to ask that question is probably a really bad sign,” he sighed, and then made an effort to rein it in, and keep this professional. “But I was talking about what you said about the chain of command.”  
  
Much to his surprise, Dennis actually twitched a little at that.  
  
“Oh,” he said, looking and sounding genuinely stricken. “That.”  
  
“Yes, that!” Suddenly Carlos found himself hanging onto his temper by the thinnest of threads. It was a real effort not to yell and wave his arms around; maybe even get up and start pacing. He tried to rein in his urge to sound and fury, but even so, he couldn’t quite keep the anger from his voice. “What the hell were you **thinking** , Dennis? You realise her dad actually did beat her, right? I mean, I know you’ve seen those bruises. And Chris said she told you, him and Missy as much yesterday. By the sounds of it, in pretty much those exact words. And you really thought it was a good idea to bring that up in the middle of the team briefing? In front of the whole damn team?” _In front of Shadow Stalker,_ he thought, but didn’t let himself say. “So, again: what the **hell** were you thinking? I mean, you might be a dick sometimes — okay, a lot of the time — but you’re not usually cruel. And that was a really cruel thing to do.”  
  
Okay, maybe he was more pissed off than he’d thought he was. Calling someone a dick in an official dressing down… Not exactly the most professional way of phrasing it, no matter how true it was. Perhaps he should try to simmer down a little.  
  
Much to his surprise, Dennis had slumped further and further in his seat as Carlos railed at him. (And he wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t. He was just… speaking forcefully. Right.)  
  
“I wasn’t thinking,” he said, sounding genuinely remorseful. “It just reminded me of that quote, that’s all. I don’t even remember where I heard it, but I remembered it all of a sudden and then before I could really think better of it I’d already said it.” He sighed, twitching his shoulders in a small shrug. “I was just trying to be funny.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Carlos muttered. “I don’t think Astrid found it particularly funny.”  
  
“I know that **now** ,” Dennis said, rolling his eyes. “Missy pointed out at the time that it didn’t quite have the effect I was hoping for.” He winced and rubbed the back of his head. “That reminds me: you might want to warn the littlest Ward to pull her punches a little. If she keeps hitting me that hard in the head, I’m going to end up with brain damage.”  
  
“Would anyone notice?” Carlos muttered, raising his eyes to the heavens as if he might find some kind of wisdom there. It seemed, however, that the heavens weren’t answering.  
  
“Hey!” Dennis protested. “I’m pretty sure that’s discrimination of some kind.”  
  
“So report me,” Carlos snapped back. He fixed Dennis with what he hoped was a suitably forbidding stare. “You need to be more careful what you say to Astrid,” he said firmly. “I realise that your usual MO is to say whatever pops into your head, but you could really upset her.” He remembered the way she’d glared daggers at Dennis after he’d accused her of flirting with Dean. And then he remembered the way she’d used her power to stick his feet to the floor. “Or piss her off.”  
  
“Honestly, I’m more worried about upsetting her,” Dennis said, and his voice was uncharacteristically serious. “I did apologise to her at the time. And I will try to be more careful in future. Scout’s honour!”  
  
He held up a few fingers in what was the worst approximation of a scout salute that Carlos had ever seen.  
  
“You were never a boy scout, were you?” Carlos asked, amused despite himself.  
  
“No, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Dennis’ eyes narrowed in a way that suddenly filled Carlos full of dread. “Wait. Were **you** a boy scout?”  
  
Carlos looked away from that suddenly piercing stare, hoping he didn’t look as awkward as he felt.  
  
“I think we’re done here. Just be more careful in future, okay?”  
  
“You were, weren’t you?” The remorse was gone as if it had never even existed, replaced by an almost maniacal glee. “Of **course** you were. You’re such a metaphorical boy scout, it’s kind of fitting that you used to be a literal one, too.” His smile turned positively sly as he added: “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence of you in your uniform. **Please**.”  
  
“That is none of your damn business,” he snapped back, and immediately regretted it when Dennis clapped his hands together, grinning so widely that Carlos was almost afraid the top of his head would fall off.  
  
“So, that’s definitely a yes. Good to know, oh glorious leader. Good to know indeed.”  
  
Carlos rolled his eyes. “Get out of my office, Dennis. Go and torment someone else.”  
  
He didn’t even care about sounding professional any more. He just wanted to stop this line of conversation dead in its tracks. Unfortunately, as Dennis took his leave — still wearing that insufferable Cheshire cat grin — he had a horrible feeling that this was not the last he’d heard on the subject.  
  
Not by a long, long way.  
  
He let his head drop onto the desk and sighed heavily.  
  
He bet Armsmaster never had to put up with this kind of shit.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Carlos wasn’t entirely sure that letting Dennis talk him into playing computer games was entirely wise, but he did need **some** way of distracting himself from his useless fretting. Concentrating on the paperwork that somehow managed to pile up no matter how diligently he tried to stay on top of it — seriously, he was almost starting to suspect the stuff of breeding or something — was apparently a no go. Rearranging the walls in the Hub barely took more than a few minutes, thanks to the automated control system. He poked around in the kitchen for a bit, but nothing particularly tugged at his appetite. In the end, Dennis looked up as he wandered through the Hub for the umpteenth time and said:  
  
“Either go and check on them, or come and help me blow stuff up. But wandering around aimlessly like that is going to achieve nothing but wear a groove in the floor.”  
  
“Well…” Carlos said, looking longingly over at the controller Dennis waggled in his general direction. “I should probably get on with some paperwork.”  
  
Dennis pulled a face. “ **Paperwork** ,” he scoffed. “Why would you do paperwork when you can help me give the Covenant what-for? Come on…” He waggled the controller again, and grinned slyly. “I won’t even bring up the boy scout thing again. Not for a while, anyway.”  
  
“Oh, how magnanimous of you,” Carlos said dryly, but he found himself accepting the controller and settling onto the sofa nonetheless. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s you and me blow up some aliens for great justice. Or something.”  
  
“Couldn’t have put it better myself!” Dennis agreed enthusiastically.  
  
It actually was a great deal of fun, even if Carlos did have the nagging feeling that maybe this wasn’t going to help the whole ‘acting like a leader’ thing in future. And even if he couldn’t completely banish his worries about Astrid’s and Shadow Stalker’s ‘friendly’ sparring match. He tried to reassure himself that it would be fine. Dean had seemed pretty confident that things wouldn’t get out of hand, and he was good at this kind of stuff. The fact that Carlos still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he should have kept an eye on the two girls anyway was probably just his anxiousness showing. Right?  
  
Right?  
  
And then Astrid came back down from the gym.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

He should have gone to supervise the sparring match.  
  
 _Dammit!_  
  
What the hell had he been thinking?  
  
That thought went through Carlos’ mind over and over again, accompanied by feelings of horror and guilt. The fact that this had happened at all was bad enough, as was the fact that it had happened on his watch, when he could have been in a position to prevent it. He’d dropped the ball, and now the newest Ward — **his** newest Ward — looked as though she’d had a run in with a mack truck.  
  
Seriously! What in the actual hell had he been **thinking**?  
  
He never should have listened to Dean. He should have followed his first instinct, and gone to make absolutely sure that things didn’t get out of hand. He should have, but he hadn’t. And it wasn’t really Dean’s fault in the end: it was his. **He** was the team leader. The buck stopped with him.  
  
He’d made a bad decision, and now Astrid had paid the price.  
  
And that would have been bad enough by itself, but then…  
  
But then.  
  
To find out that, as far as Astrid was concerned, nothing out of the ordinary had happened? That injuries like the ones she was sporting were a normal and expected consequence of sparring? That her own damn **father** had trained her that way?  
  
He’d known there was something off about her, about the way she reacted to him. It wasn’t exactly subtle. Even **Dennis** had noticed that much. But this? Carlos was in no way equipped to deal with something like this; to deal with someone like her. He was so far out of his depth he couldn’t even **see** the bottom from where he was busy flailing around. And every time he tried to help, it felt like he was just making the situation worse. Like when she’d obviously thought he was angry with her for using her powers; that he was going to hit her or something.  
  
He really didn’t want to know what she thought he might do to her that was worse than the injuries she already had.  
  
And that was another thing: he couldn’t believe that Astrid was actually defending the person who’d just beat her black and blue. What the hell was **wrong** with the girl? Why wasn’t she mad at Shadow Stalker? **He** sure as hell was.  
  
And he was going to have to do something about this, wasn’t he?  
  
He just had absolutely no clue what that was.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Carlos was intending to go and talk to Shadow Stalker right away, he really was. But then it occurred to him that he should probably gather as much information as he could about what exactly had happened during the sparring match — no, the fight — before confronting her. He didn’t really want to give Astrid the third degree but, fortunately, there was another option: the camera footage from the gym.  
  
He really wasn’t procrastinating. He wasn’t. It was just better to have all the facts in hand first, that was all.  
  
There was a moment of doubt when he sat down at his desk and logged into the internal camera system. What if someone higher up noticed that he’d checked the footage? What if they got curious about what he was looking at? What if they checked it for themselves? The thought of Director Piggot becoming aware of just how badly he’d messed up was not a pleasant one. But… He needed to know what had actually happened. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for him to review training footage from the gym. Usually his own, but…  
  
Well, he’d done it now, so there was no point in worrying about it. Either the director would find out, or she wouldn’t. He was going to do his level best not to worry about it until and unless it happened.  
  
In the meantime, he had some footage to review…  
  
When he was done, he sat there and stared at nothing for what felt like a long time. And then he watched it again. And again.  
  
Well.  
  
That was certainly a hell of a thing.  
  
He was honestly kind of glad Shadow Stalker had turned the lights out before delivering the final beat down. The reduced detail of the thermal view had been bad enough, but then there were the **sounds** … And Astrid didn’t even have a brute package. Although he found himself really hoping that she was wrong about that; that she wasn’t in nearly as much pain right now as he feared she was.  
  
And she thought that was ‘normal sparring.’  
  
Jesus.  
  
Anyway, now he really was just procrastinating. He needed to go and have that talk with Shadow Stalker, and he needed to do it now.  
  
He just hoped he managed to figure out what to say before he got there.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Hey, Chris?”  
  
Chris almost jumped out of his skin, looking up guiltily from where he’d been idly spinning around on his chair, shoving his phone back in his pocket so forcefully that Carlos was almost surprised not to hear cloth tear.  
  
“I’m taking a short break!” he said, more than a little defensively. “I was just about to get back to work.” He might have sounded more convincing if he hadn’t tacked a: “Really!” on the end of that.  
  
Carlos somehow managed not to grin. “No judgement here,” he said mildly, holding up his hands. “I just came to ask if you could spare a few minutes to do me a favour.”  
  
Chris looked down at the partly assembled — or partly disassembled? — device spread out on the bench in front of him and sighed audibly. “Sure,” he said, spinning around on his chair again until he was facing Carlos. He got to his feet. “What do you need?”  
  
“I need to have a word with Shadow Stalker, but she’s on monitoring duty at the moment. I know your next shift isn’t until tomorrow, but would you mind taking over from her for a few minutes while we talk? It shouldn’t take any longer than that. I hope.”  
  
“Sure,” Chris said, shrugging. “That’s no problem at all.” He strode towards Carlos, hesitating for a moment before asking: “Can I ask what you need to talk to her about that’s so urgent? Or it is top secret team leader stuff.”  
  
Carlos couldn’t keep back the sigh as the two of them started to make their way up towards the Hub.  
  
“Turns out that the ‘friendly’ sparring match she had with Astrid… wasn’t. Not by a long shot.” He was a little surprised at how grim he sounded.  
  
“Is Astrid okay?” Chris sounded worried.  
  
“She’ll live,” Carlos said shortly. “She’s a little battered and bruised, though.”  
  
“She was already pretty battered.” Now, Chris had passed all the way through ‘worried’ and had apparently landed smack in the middle of ‘disturbed’. “Are you saying Shadow Stalker gave her even more bruises?”  
  
“Something like that. Anyway, that’s why I need to talk to Shadow Stalker. I need to make sure she realises that kind of thing isn’t acceptable.”  
  
“Pretty sure she already knows and just doesn’t care. It’s not like it would be the first time she’s left bruises during sparring.”  
  
“Not like this,” Carlos said with feeling. “Trust me.”  
  
“Oh.” Chris was silent for a while after that. As they approached the monitoring station, he gave Carlos a determined look. “Take as long as you need,” he said in a low but firm voice. “I don’t mind covering the console for a while. Even for the whole rest of the shift if you need it.”  
  
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Carlos assured him. “But thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.”  
  
Shadow Stalker glanced up as the two of them entered the monitoring room, and then pointedly glanced down again. She was still fiddling with her damn phone, Carlos was irritated to see. He almost, **almost** said something cutting about it, but he managed to keep the words back. This was not the time to get side-tracked. Without a word, Chris started setting himself up at one of the other stations. Carlos thought that Shadow Stalker maybe looked briefly in his direction, but it was hard to be certain. Hoping desperately that he wasn’t going to end up making a complete mess of this, Carlos drew himself up to his full height and fixed Shadow Stalker with a grim look.  
  
“Shadow Stalker,” he said, his voice as stern as he could make it. “My office. Now.”  
  
“Can’t,” she said, the careless contempt in that single word grating like nails on a chalkboard. “Console duty.”  
  
He had to fight the urge to grit his teeth.  
  
“Kid Win will cover for you while you’re occupied. But we are going to have that conversation now.”  
  
She did look at him, then, the features of the stern woman’s face stencilled on her otherwise blank mask telling him absolutely nothing about what might be going through her head.  
  
“Well, look who thinks he’s grown a pair,” she murmured, sounding far too amused for his liking.  
  
He might be able to adapt to pretty much anything, came the distant, incongruous thought, but one of these days she was going to give him a heart attack from the sheer fury she somehow managed to cause with just a handful of words. Sometimes even by saying nothing at all. Or maybe it would be an aneurysm. Whatever it was, it would be messy. Blood on the walls, messy. Maybe even blood on the ceiling messy. He knew that for a fact.  
  
“I’m not going to argue with you,” he said, tightly. “Come with me now, or ride the console for another week. Your choice.”  
  
Not trusting himself to say anything further, he turned on his heel and strode quickly towards his office.  
  
Wasn’t **this** an auspicious start? Maybe he should just have kicked this straight upstairs instead: told Director Piggot about what happened and let her handle it however she saw fit. But he was supposed to be the team leader. What kind of leader would he be if he sent matters up the line at the drop of a hat? If he shied away from doing his job just because parts of it were a little tricky to handle? No, this was his mess, and he would be the one to deal with it.  
  
No matter how out of his depth he felt right now.  
  
He was relieved and apprehensive in equal measure when Shadow Stalker actually did follow him to his office. Like Dennis before her, she took a chair without waiting for him to give her permission. Unlike Dennis, however, she didn’t bother to close the door behind her. Judging it not worth making an issue out of it, Carlos closed the door himself, indulging himself by glaring daggers at the back of Shadow Stalker’s head as he crossed back to his desk. He indulged himself further by remaining on his feet, rather than sitting down. For this particular conversation, he had the feeling he was going to need every advantage he could scrape together.  
  
He studied her for a long moment, giving her the chance to ask what this was all about. She just folded her arms and stared back at him in contemptuous silence, her body language speaking volumes without her needing to utter so much as a single word out loud.  
  
“Apparently,” he began, when he judged the silence had stretched on for long enough. “We need to clarify what ‘friendly sparring’ actually means.”  
  
 _There,_ he thought, pleased. _That was suitably professional sounding, wasn’t it?_  
  
“Let me guess.” Shadow Stalker managed to sound both bored and dismissive at the same time. “The new girl came crying to you.”  
  
Carlos snorted. “Hardly,” he said. “If you must know, she insisted that she was fine and that her injuries were perfectly normal for sparring.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
Not for the first time, Carlos wished Shadow Stalker would take her mask off so he at least had a chance of trying to figure out what was going on in that twisted brain of hers.  
  
“But I do have eyes,” he said. “And what you did to Astrid was not in any way acceptable. I know you know that.”  
  
“She kept telling me to step it up,” Shadow Stalker said, after a moment. “I assumed she could take it.”  
  
That actually gave him a moment’s pause. From both what Astrid had said, and what he’d seen on the footage of the fight, Shadow Stalker wasn’t actually lying about that. It seemed that he — and Dean, for that matter — had drastically underestimated Astrid’s ability to piss Shadow Stalker off. Those little barbs she’d thrown out, in conjunction with her disparaging comments on the effectiveness of Shadow Stalker’s attacks… Yeah, she’d definitely been ‘encouraging’ her to escalate. Which didn’t excuse what Shadow Stalker had done, not in the slightest, but it meant that there was just the tiniest bit of doubt in his mind.  
  
Maybe she really had thought that Astrid could take that kind of damage.  
  
“She doesn’t have any brute abilities,” he told her, just to make doubly sure that she understood what it was she’d done. “Not at all.”  
  
“So, what? She’s just a masochist?”  
  
Carlos couldn’t keep back a small sigh. He seemed to be sighing an awful lot today.  
  
“Turns out that her idea of friendly sparring is a little more extreme than normal.” He frowned. “Well,” he amends. “More than the rest of us would consider normal, anyway.”  
  
“So what’s the problem?” Shadow Stalker asked after a moment.  
  
Once again, Carlos found himself fighting the urge to bang his head on the desk.  
  
“The problem,” he said tightly. “Is that, no matter what kind of messed up training Astrid’s been used to up until now, the kind of damage you did to her is just not acceptable. As you well know, or should do. You shouldn’t have gone that far. I don’t care how many times she told you to step it up. Or that she called you ‘little girl.’ You’re supposed to be one of the heroes, Shadow Stalker. And heroes just don’t do that kind of thing. Certainly not to their own team mates.”  
  
Shadow Stalker had gone very still, just watching him, as far as he could tell. He tried not to make comparisons to snakes, large cats and other predatory animals.  
  
“I thought you said she didn’t say anything,” she said, her tone neutral.  
  
“She didn’t,” Carlos told her. “I watched the footage from the gym cameras.”  
  
“Does that mean you’re going to have this conversation with her, then?” she asked.  
  
“I’ve already spoken to Astrid.” He couldn’t help cringing inside a little at the memory of how that had gone, but he tried not to think about it.  
  
Just like he tried not to think about how deeply unsettling it had been to see the floor of the gym sprout foot-long metal spikes. Deeply unsettling indeed, and uncomfortably reminiscent of the kind of thing Kaiser could do. Not that he’d ever been anywhere near that hateful, psychotic bastard in person, but he’d seen footage of him fighting; seen pictures of some of the sites of his battles afterwards. And… yeah. Not identical, but still far too close for comfort.  
  
Pointedly, he added. “But she gets a little slack because she didn’t know any better. Unlike you. And because, as far as I could tell, she seemed to get the worst of it.”  
  
“She did.” Shadow Stalker sounded far too pleased with herself for his liking. Not to mention distinctly less than remorseful.  
  
He gave her a sharp look. He was almost surprised she hadn’t mentioned the spikes, but she didn’t exactly seem inclined to talk about any of the details about what had happened.  
  
Should he talk to Astrid about the spikes? Should he reprimand her for what she’d done? (Even though he wasn’t sure if he could actually bring himself to do that right now.) It **had** been dangerous; reckless even. If Shadow Stalker had been slower at dodging, or at phasing, she could have ended up badly cut. Sure, as far as he could tell, Astrid didn’t seem to have been deliberately targeting her with them, but accidents happened. It was certainly way over the top for what was supposed to be a friendly sparring match. Which meant he probably should say something. But he really couldn’t bear to see her flinch from him again. Anyway, he’d already warned her not to spar with powers until she’d been properly evaluated. And surely PR would speak to her about the spikes after she’d undergone testing and shown them what she could do.  
  
Yes, it would be better to leave that conversation up to PR. They knew what they were doing, after all. It would undoubtedly not be the first time they’d had to tell some new Ward to dial it back a little, whereas he didn’t even have the first clue where to start. He’d only make a mess of it, he was sure. Best to leave it to the professionals.  
  
In the meantime, he still had Shadow Stalker to deal with. But what the hell should he say?  
  
“This won’t happen again,” he told her, after a moment’s frantic thought, trying to sound as firm as he could.  
  
“Are you trying to tell me not to spar with her?” she demanded, sounding vaguely irritated.  
  
He was so very tempted to say yes; yes, that’s exactly what he meant, but something made him hold back. Would it really help, in the long term? Or would it just end up irritating both girls? Worse, would it mean that they would just sneak around behind his back in the future? Because, lest he forget, Astrid had specifically said she wanted to spar with Shadow Stalker again, even though he thought she was crazy for actually wanting that. And something in Shadow Stalker’s tone told him she wouldn’t exactly be unwilling…  
  
He made himself take a breath and actually think about how best to answer that question before speaking.  
  
“No,” he said, hoping he wouldn’t have cause to regret it. “I’m saying that you’re not to leave bruises. Or worse. And you are most definitely not allowed to spar with powers until Astrid’s been cleared for that.”  
  
“You’d better tell her that, then.”  
  
“I have, don’t worry.”  
  
She sat there in silence for a few moments, leaving him once again to wonder what on earth was going through her mind. Was she remorseful? Unlikely. Pissed off? Probably. Would she do this again, despite his admonition? He had absolutely no clue whatsoever.  
  
“Is that it?” she asked, just as the silence was starting to feel really, really awkward.  
  
“Yes,” he replied without thinking, just so relieved to have said his piece without tripping over his tongue too much. “That’s it.”  
  
Without another word, she got up and left. Naturally, she didn’t bother to close the door behind her. Carlos sank down into his chair, thankful beyond measure that that conversation was over and done with. And it hadn’t even seemed to go too badly, not really.  
  
That was when he realised that he’d completely failed to actually assign any kind of punishment whatsoever. Which meant, essentially, that Shadow Stalker had just got away with beating one of her team mates to a pulp.  
  
Groaning quietly to himself, Carlos let his head hit the desk with an audible thunk.  
  
 _I really **suck** at being team leader._

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Carlos allowed himself the indulgence of wallowing in guilt and self-pity for a minute or two, hoping that no one wandered by and found him there with his head on his desk. When his two minutes’ self-hate were up, though, he got up, closed the office door and sat back down at his desk, energised by a new purpose.  
  
Just because he didn’t have the first clue how to personally deal with someone like Astrid, that didn’t mean he couldn’t make sure she got help from people who did. And, if there was one thing that their last conversation had made abundantly, overwhelmingly clear, it was that she needed all the help she could get. Luckily, the PRT had procedures for this sort of thing. In theory, of course, they should already be making arrangements to arrange Astrid an appointment with a counsellor. Psychological assessment was, after all, a standard part of the Ward intake procedure. But sometimes, depending on counsellor availability and — he suspected — bureaucratic inertia, it could take a little while for the relevant gears to grind. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to give the administrative machine a little bit of a nudge in the right direction.  
  
He navigated his way through the — in his opinion — somewhat byzantine array of forms and check boxes necessary to submit his request to HR. Well, if he was honest, it was really a politely-worded demand, but he felt the situation more than merited being a little demanding. He looked after his people, or at least he tried to. Just because Astrid was new, that didn’t mean he was going to do any less for her than he’d do for any of the others. Hell, he’d mandate eight hours of counselling a day for Shadow Stalker if he could.  
  
Never mind.  
  
He was getting side-tracked.  
  
He set a reminder in his calendar to follow up in a week’s time if he hadn’t heard anything by then. The next step would be contacting Piggy — Director Piggot, he half-heartedly reminded himself — directly. If nothing was done after that, well, that only left the nuclear option: Ms Grant and the Youth Guard.  
  
He **really** hoped it didn’t come to that. Oh, he’d do it, if he really felt it was necessary, but the fallout would likely be spectacular. He liked Ms Grant, he did, and her heart was certainly in the right place, but…  Things sometimes got… messy… when she stepped in. And the blatant animosity between her and Director Piggot helped matters not one bit.  
  
Well. It probably wouldn’t be necessary to involve her in this. What was the quote? The wheels of bureaucracy may grind slowly, but they ground exceedingly fine. Or something. Say what you would about the PRT’s administrative procedures — and he often said a great deal, in not entirely polite terms — they were very big on making sure all the relevant boxes got ticked. Eventually.  
  
Now he’d gotten that out of the way, he leaned back in his chair and pulled out his phone, rattling off a couple of quick texts. The first was to Eric. Nothing of substance, just a quick line to let his boyfriend know he was thinking of him. Which wasn’t precisely a fib, because he had been thinking of him earlier, when he spoke to Chris. He’d meant to text then, but what with one thing and another, he’d gotten distracted. Anyway, he did think of it now he finally had a couple of minutes to himself, so that totally counted. The reply came just after he sent the second message. It said:  
  
‘I hope they were naughty thoughts… ;-)’  
  
He did not splutter. Not even a little.  
  
 _Dammit!_ he thought to himself. _This is ridiculous. I’m seventeen years old. I’ve known Eric for years. We’ve been dating for weeks now. And it’s not like I didn’t already **know** about his sense of humour when I agreed to go out with him. There’s no way he should be able to fluster me this much!_  
  
And yet, all the evidence would suggest that he could. That he was.  
  
 _Dammit!_  
  
It was just… Things were different, now that they were dating. Well, obviously, but… Sometimes they fell into the old, comfortable patterns they’d formed when they were just friends, and he didn’t even have to think about it. But then he’d remember that they were **together** now — the kissing did help to drive that home, he supposed; not that he was complaining in the slightest about that particular new facet of their interactions — and he just… got shy. Which was completely, utterly, absolutely ridiculous. **He** was being ridiculous.  
  
So ridiculous.  
  
And he should probably try to figure out how he was going to reply to that text. Or even if he was going to reply.  
  
He tried not to think about how relieved he felt when his phone rang while he was still dithering. And then he felt relieved for whole other reasons when he saw who was calling.  
  
“Good afternoon, Miss Militia,” he said, his voice warm. “Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”  
  
“Good afternoon, Aegis,” he replied. “Just Hannah is fine, though. I’m not on duty right now.”  
  
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said, faintly worried. “This can probably wait if-“  
  
“I wouldn’t have called if I was busy, don’t worry,” she assured him, sounding faintly amused. “You know that.”  
  
“I guess.” He made himself take a deep, even breath, doing his best to push the faint feeling of guilt — that her time was important, that she must have better things to than listen to him whine, that she was just being nice, that she must secretly resent his intrusion into her undoubtedly precious free time — away.  
  
“You’re fretting again, aren’t you, Carlos?” Her tone was gentle, non-judgemental, but he hunched into his seat a little anyway.  
  
“No,” he said, and mentally kicked himself at how much defensiveness he’d apparently managed to cram into that single, short word. “Maybe a little,” he amended.  
  
“Well, don’t,” she said. “I realise that’s easier said than done, but think about this logically. I’m a grown woman, and I’m perfectly capable of choosing for myself how I spend my own time. The fact that I called you must at least suggest I don’t mind speaking with you right now. And, if I do, then frankly, I have no one but myself to blame.”  
  
“I… suppose so,” he said, unable to find fault with that chain of logic. “But-“  
  
“No, Carlos,” Miss Militia — Hannah — interrupted, sounding fondly exasperated. “I didn’t feel ‘obligated’ to call you. I simply had a space in my schedule and wasn’t in the middle of anything I minded setting aside for a little while.” Her tone dry, she continued. “Speaking with you isn’t exactly a chore, although perhaps it might become one if every other word is an apology.”  
  
Carlos laughed, running a hand through his hair.  
  
“I guess I’m a little predictable sometimes, huh?”  
  
“I would never say such a thing,” Hannah said.  
  
“Just think it very loudly?”  
  
“No comment,” she said dryly. “Now,” she continued in a brisk tone. “What can I do for you?”  
  
“Maybe I just called to ask how you’re getting on with ‘The Outsiders’?”  
  
“Quite well, thank you, although I strongly suspect it’s going to end with everybody dead. Honestly, between this and your recommendation of ‘The Hunger Games,’ I’m starting to wonder a little about either your taste in literature, or what you must think of mine.” Carlos started to protest, but she just kept talking. “But, while I’m perfectly happy to chat with you about books, you and I both know that’s not what you wanted to talk about. So. How can I help you?”  
  
“I really am utterly transparent, aren’t I?” Carlos sighed, quickly adding. “Please don’t feel the need to answer that.”  
  
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”  
  
“Okay,” Carlos said. He took a deep breath. “I was just hoping for some advice about dealing with a new Ward.”  
  
“I wasn’t aware there was a new Ward,” Hannah mused. “I suppose the notification must not have come through yet.”  
  
“She just joined today. This afternoon, in fact. Her name’s-“  
  
“Probably not something you should be sharing with me.” Hannah sounded faintly reproachful. “Unless you meant her cape name.”  
  
“No, she doesn’t have one of those yet. But she didn’t seem to mind sharing her first name with everyone.”  
  
“It’s still probably best not to assume.”  
  
“Okay,” he agreed. It was probably going to make this a little bit more awkward, but he could manage. And, honestly, it was probably a good habit to get into. “Right. So, she’s had something of a…” How best to phrase this? “Troubled home life, and I’m not really sure how to deal with that.”  
  
There was a pause, and then Hannah cautiously asked: “What can you tell me that won’t give away anything confidential?”  
  
“Um…” Astrid had told the others about her dad hitting her, so she obviously wasn’t trying to keep it a secret. On the other hand, they were all part of the same team. Maybe she’d feel differently about him telling someone outside the Wards. He honestly didn’t know. On the other hand, it wasn’t like Hannah was likely to blab anything he told her to all and sundry, and he really did need her advice. Maybe it would be okay if he just… hinted. “She’s left home, and she’s going to be living in the Wards HQ. At least for the time being.”  
  
“I see,” Hannah said quietly.  
  
“She seems pretty on edge around me,” Carlos said. “And I have no clue how to put her at ease. I just…” He sighed. “I don’t know how to talk to her.” He debated with himself for a moment whether to continue but, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “She actually calls me Sir, if you can believe that, even though I told her she didn’t have to. She said her dad was ex-military, and it sounds like her upbringing has been quite… regimented.” Which was probably a hell of an understatement.  
  
The line was silent for long enough that he almost started to think the call had been cut off somehow, but Hannah eventually spoke.  
  
“Would I be correct in assuming that she doesn’t respond well to sudden movements, invasions of her personal space, or signs of anger?”  
  
“Pretty much, yeah.”  
  
Another pause, and then: “You know I’m not a trained counsellor, Carlos.”  
  
“I know that,” he said. “But I just thought you might be able to offer me some advice on how not to make a complete mess of this.” He sighed. “Any more than I already have been, that is.”  
  
“I’ll do what I can,” she assured him, much to his very great relief. “But I just want to make sure you understand that my advice comes with caveats. This isn’t exactly my area of expertise, and I’m not working with a complete picture.” She hesitated for a moment or two, and then very carefully added: “I’m not asking you to break any confidences, but in light of what you’ve already told me, if there’s any more information you would be comfortable sharing, then it might make things easier.”  
  
 _In other words,_ he thought, reading between the lines. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ Hannah had obviously figured out enough that she thought he might as well tell her the rest. He thought about it.  
  
“I need to know this won’t go any further,” he said.  
  
He was almost expecting Hannah to be offended, but he should have known better. “Not unless I genuinely believe it needs to, and I’ll tell you first before taking any action,” she said, which wasn’t the answer he’d hoped for, but was more or less the answer he’d been expecting.  
  
It was good enough.  
  
“She challenged another team member to a friendly sparring match,” he said. “It… ended up not being so friendly. The new girl took the worst of it, but she wasn’t exactly shy about dishing it out either. And when I spoke to her about it afterwards, she seemed to think it was normal for sparring to involve…” How to phrase this? “Significant bruising. More than that, she said that was how she’d been trained. How her father had trained her. I think I managed to get her to understand that we don’t spar like that in the Wards — although she seemed a little surprised to hear it — but I just…” He sighed heavily. “I am in no way prepared to deal with someone from that kind of background.”  
  
“I assume you’ve put in a request for counselling on her behalf?” Hannah asked.  
  
“Yes, of course.” He nodded automatically, even though she couldn’t see the gesture. “But I still have to talk to her, and I just don’t know how to do that without freaking her out.” He laughed, but there was no real humour in the sound. “More than I already have, that is.”  
  
“I suspect you’ve already thought of the obvious measures you can take,” Hannah said. “Try to avoid sudden movements, especially sudden movements towards her. Don’t try and touch her — not even a friendly pat on the shoulder, or anything like that. And I doubt you’re planning on shouting at her any time soon.”  
  
“No, of course not,” he said, horrified at the very thought.  
  
“Beyond that…” Hannah sighed softly. “If she’s been used to a fairly regimented lifestyle, then she’ll probably be more comfortable if she’s allowed to continue that way. She probably has a routine that she’ll try to stick to. If that’s something that can be reasonably accommodated, then doing so will probably help her to settle in. If she seems happier being more formal with you, then I don’t think there’s any harm in letting her continue.” A faint note of humour underlay the next words. “No matter how weird it might feel to have another Ward treat you with respect.”  
  
“Okay, fine, I get it,” Carlos huffed, mock-indignantly. “My every thought is completely transparent to you.”  
  
“Not your **every** thought…” Carlos rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Hannah continued. “More seriously, because I do know you, I know your first instinct will probably be to try to befriend her. That won’t necessarily be the best idea. A little distance might actually help her to adjust. When she’s more comfortable just being around you, then you can try to encourage her to be a little more familiar, if you still want to. But that’s something you’re just going to have to play by ear.”  
  
“Alright,” Carlos said, turning that thought over in his head. “I can do that.”  
  
“One thing I do want to stress,” Hannah said. “Is that counselling her is not your job. By all means be supportive, but the PRT has experts for that kind of thing. I know it can be tempting to try to help her work through her issues, but when you don’t know what you’re doing you can end up doing more harm than good.” She sounded sad all of a sudden. “Trust me on this.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, hanging onto his curiosity only by the slimmest of margins. That did sound like the voice of experience… “I know my limits. I just don’t want to screw up and upset her, that’s all.”  
  
“Honestly, that’s probably going to happen anyway, despite the best of intentions,” Hannah told him, a little disappointingly. “The sad fact is that you can’t possibly hope to predict every little thing that might make her react badly. Even the most seemingly innocuous of things might set her off. All you can do is try to recognise the signs, and be prepared to take a step back if necessary. And, unfortunately, you’re also going to have to keep an eye on her interactions with the rest of your team where you can. At least in the short-term.”  
  
“Tell me about it,” he said, with feeling. “I’ve already had to have strong words with… someone… about saying something inappropriate.”  
  
“I think I can guess who that was,” Hannah murmured. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. “There is something you’re going to have to consider,” she added, and he wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought she sounded almost… reluctant.  
  
“What’s that?” he asked cautiously.  
  
“Discipline,” she said bluntly.  
  
“Excuse me?” Carlos asked, his voice emerging a little higher pitched than he would have liked.  
  
“What are you going to do if she does something that you have to reprimand her for?”  
  
“Um,” Carlos said, his mind going blank.  
  
Hannah sighed. “I’m not saying she’s necessarily going to cause trouble, but you need to bear in mind that there’s likely a fairly significant gulf of experience between what she’s been used to, and her life from this point on. Being a teenager is stressful enough, and when you factor in triggering, her home life and the fact that she’s just undergone a fairly major upheaval… Even if she has no intention of acting out, I wouldn’t be surprised if it happens anyway. You also have to take into consideration the fact that she’s obviously been used to a certain level of violence in her life.”  
  
Carlos blinked.  
  
“Are you saying you think she’s going to get into fights or something?”  
  
“I’m saying that I have no idea how she’s going to react, and neither do you. So if she does do something out of line, it will be easier to handle if you’ve at least put some thought into it ahead of time.”  
  
“But… But I’m pretty sure her dad just hit her if she did anything wrong at home,” Carlos said, only belatedly realising that he’d just thrown away the metaphorical fig leaf he’d been using to pretend to himself that he wasn’t really telling any secrets, just hinting at them. “She’s going to think I’m going to… She already flinches if she even **thinks** I might be angry with her. I don’t want to scare her.”  
  
“That’s why I’m telling you to think about this now,” Hannah said patiently. Maybe with exaggerated patience. “So you can maintain discipline **without** scaring her.”  
  
“Shouldn’t I cut her a little slack, though?” Carlos asked, his mind whirling. “On account of everything she’s been through?”  
  
“Carlos.” He hunched a little at the reproach in Hannah’s tone. “I know you know better than that. I’m not saying come to down on her like a tonne of bricks. Especially if you’re dealing with a mismatch of expectations rather than malice aforethought. But you have to be prepared to make sure that every member of the team knows to follow the rules. Even the new ones. And, unpleasant though it is to think about, you can’t just ignore infractions in the name of ‘cutting someone slack.’ Sometimes you have to issue reprimands, or even punishments. And **obviously** you’re going to tread carefully with this girl but, ultimately, setting clear boundaries will be to her benefit. Trust me, I speak from experience. Do you understand?”  
  
“I think so,” he said, feeling a little bit intimidated. It did make sense, he supposed, but he had a hard enough time chastising the others when it proved necessary. How was he supposed to reprimand someone who already seemed to be half-expecting every movement of his to be a blow?  
  
 _Maybe it won’t be necessary,_ he thought, hopefully.  
  
After all, Astrid didn’t really seem like the trouble-causing type. Maybe he could get through the remainder of his time as team leader without it being an issue. Apropos of nothing, he wondered if he’d be able to convince Dean to act as a buffer between him and Astrid. He’d brought her in, after all. He made a mental note to raise the subject at the first available opportunity.  
  
“I know it’s hard,” Hannah said, sympathetically. “You’re only young, and this is a big responsibility.”  
  
“Yeah,” Carlos agreed, feeling somewhat intimidated.  
  
“But you’re good at this, despite what you seem to think,” she continued. “And it will get easier with time and experience. Trust me.”  
  
“I do,” he said, sighing. “And I appreciate your confidence, I really do, but I can’t help feeling that it’s… misplaced. I really have no idea what I’m doing, you know.”  
  
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she told him wryly. “Everyone in your position feels exactly the same way when they start out.”  
  
He blinked at that, startled.  
  
“Everyone? Even Armsmaster?”  
  
“You know I’m not going to answer that,” she said, sounding amused. “I like you, Carlos, but not enough to gossip about my boss behind his back.” More seriously, she continued: “It’s only human to have doubts. But I know you can do this. You just need to trust in yourself.” She paused for a moment, letting the words sink in — and maybe giving him a chance to respond, if he hadn’t been struggling to find words right now — and then added, in a mischievous tone: “And, of course, continue to petition your elders and betters for advice. That’s always a good move. Especially if you bribe them with that delicious bizcocho mojadito cake you know they love so much.”  
  
That startled a laugh out of Carlos. He was even more startled to realise that he actually did feel a little better. Not confident, exactly, but at least like he had something of an idea of how to proceed.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. A little slyly, he added. “If I tell Emilio it’s for Miss Militia, he’ll probably bake a whole extra cake just for you. And write your name on it. And stick a little American flag on top.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, sounding a little embarrassed. “I don’t want to make a fuss. I just really like those cakes.”  
  
Carlos grinned, but let the subject drop. Maybe he shouldn’t have told Hannah that his brother had a crush on her, but it was kind of funny seeing the ever-composed Miss Militia even a little bit off-balance. Not that she ever got truly flustered, but still.  
  
And… suddenly he had a much better idea of why Eric liked teasing him so much.  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him it’s for you if you don’t want me to,” he assured her. “It’s not like my brother ever minds an excuse to bake, anyway.” He sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Thanks for the advice,” he told her, hoping she could hear how sincerely he meant that. “I think it really helped.” He grimaced. “Even the parts I didn’t really want to hear.”  
  
“I’m glad,” she said, sounding pleased. She took an audible breath. “So,” she said, decisively. “To change the subject completely: do you want to have a quick chat about your book recommendations?”  
  
Carlos checked the time. He probably should get on with that paperwork, but… Oh, what the hell: a few minutes longer wouldn’t hurt, and thinking about something a little more pleasant would do wonders for his ability to focus.  
  
“Sure, I’ve got a few minutes. So, how far through ‘The Outsiders’ are you?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

A little while later, Carlos was feeling pretty pleased with himself and with life in general as he wandered off to the kitchen to get a coffee. Maybe he really could do this team leader thing after all. After hesitating for a moment, he made himself take a quick detour to the briefing room — currently the gaming room, he supposed — to see how Astrid was doing. He was a little surprised to find Dennis there by his lonesome, still sprawled out on the sofa.  
  
Carlos frowned.  
  
“Where’s…?” he started to ask.  
  
“Astrid had a meeting with Ms Grant,” Dennis told him, not looking up from his game. “Although you missed an interesting conversation she had with Shadow Stalker.”  
  
 _Oh no…_  
  
“Interesting how?” he asked, cautiously.  
  
“Just… interesting.” Dennis paused there, but just as Carlos was opening his mouth to demand more details than merely ‘interesting,’ Dennis continued. “It wasn’t entirely unfriendly, for one thing.”  
  
Carlos blinked.  
  
“I… see,” he said, not seeing at all. He thought he should probably be concerned nonetheless.  
  
“Hey,” Dennis said suddenly. “How come you took Shadow Stalker off console duty?”  
  
“I didn’t take…” he started to say, and then stopped. He groaned. “Let me guess,” he said grimly. “After her ‘not entirely unfriendly’ conversation with Astrid, she took off?”  
  
“Yeah,” Dennis replied, in the same tone of voice that he would have said ‘well, duh.’ “I guess that means she didn’t have your permission, then.” He frowned. “So, who’s manning the console?”  
  
“Chris,” Carlos answered, trying not to grind his teeth. “He agreed to cover for a few minutes so I could have a chat with Shadow Stalker about what she did to Astrid. But she was supposed to go back there afterwards.”  
  
Dennis paused his game so he could shake his head pityingly at Carlos.  
  
“You’re an idiot sometimes,” he told him, not entirely unsympathetically. “I mean, you know I love you, man, but you are an idiot.”  
  
“Hey.” Carlos’ protest was half-hearted, largely because he thought Dennis might have a point. “Dammit! I should have made sure she actually went back to her station, shouldn’t I?”  
  
“Yep,” Dennis agreed, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis.  
  
“Dammit.” Carlos sighed the word this time. “Well, I guess I know what I’m doing for the rest of the shift,” he said glumly.  
  
“Playing computer games with me?” Dennis said, with exaggerated hopefulness. “Maybe watching a movie?”  
  
Carlos gave him a flat look. “Finishing out Shadow Stalker’s stint on monitoring duty. Since my chances of getting her back here are pretty much zero, and it’s not exactly fair to leave Chris stuck there when he was just doing me a favour for a few minutes.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Dennis said, shrugging as he turned back to his game. “Your loss, though. Just tell Chris that there’s a space on this sofa with his name on it, if he’s interested.”  
  
“How quickly I’m replaced,” Carlos murmured, amused despite himself.  
  
“Aw, don’t be sad, Chief. You know you’ll always have a special place in my heart.” Carlos rolled his eyes and turned to leave, only to be brought up short as Dennis added: “Especially after seeing pictures of you in your scout uniform.”  
  
Carlos froze, and then whirled around. “You’re bluffing,” he said, but he sounded a lot more uncertain than he’d hoped.  
  
“Think that if you like,” Dennis said. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.” He glanced over at Carlos, smirking. “Just don’t trouble your pretty little head about wondering about who else I might have shared those pictures with.”  
  
Well, he **hadn’t** been worried about that until Dennis said it!  
  
“There aren’t any pictures,” he said, aiming for a confidence he didn’t feel. Because that wasn’t strictly true, and if there was one thing he’d learned about Dennis, it was that no matter how lazy he could be at times — and he certainly could be impressively lazy — he was willing to go to ridiculous lengths for the sake of a good joke.  
  
“Whatever you say,” Dennis said loftily.  
  
“Dennis…” he said warningly.  
  
“Carlos!” Dennis replied, cheerfully. “Anyway,” he said. “You’d better get going if you’re planning on replacing Chris on the console before the shift is over.” He smirked again. “After all, leaving a team mate in the lurch like that is hardly appropriate behaviour for a boy scout. Even a former boy scout.”  
  
Carlos opened his mouth to tell Dennis to knock it off, but stopped himself at the last minute from actually saying the words. It wouldn’t help and, well, much as he hated to admit it, Dennis did have a point about rescuing Chris from his surprise and unexpectedly long spell on monitoring duty.  
  
“I’ll be on the console,” he said flatly, instead, and strode off while he could still make some vague pretence at dignity.  
  
What did a team leader have to do to get some respect around here?  
  
But, of course, that just made him think of Astrid, and looking at it from that angle…  
  
Maybe Dennis wasn’t so bad after all.  
  
Anyway, he **definitely** wasn’t as bad as Shadow Stalker, but she was a problem for another time.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Only Shadow Stalker, Carlos found himself thinking later, a couple of hours later, could manage to piss him off royally by actually following the rules.  
  
Sometimes he thought that if someone ever told him that pissing people off was actually a part of Shadow Stalker’s power set, he’d accept it without question. He wouldn’t be even a little bit surprised.  
  
An hour or so after he’d replaced Chris on the console, Shadow Stalker had actually called in to report a collar. Apparently, after leaving the Wards HQ, she’d decided to head out on a little solo, unauthorised patrol. Which, he reminded himself, wasn’t **technically** against the rules in any way. Nor was it actually against the rules for her to apprehend criminals that she encountered while they were in the process of committing a crime. Even if she had been patrolling somewhat beyond the bounds of the designated Wards’ areas. No, by all accounts, she did everything exactly by the book. Including calling in law enforcement officers to take away the criminals after restraining them. And waiting until said officers showed up. The most surprising thing of all, however, was that, not only had she actually taken the time to give a witness statement — rather than just blowing it off, as was her wont — she’d said that she was going to swing by the base to submit the relevant paperwork!  
  
She **never** filled out the paperwork without him chasing her up about it. Often multiple times. Often, it got to the point that he had to threaten not to let her out on patrol again until she caught up with her outstanding incident reports.  
  
Clearly, she was making a point.  
  
Someone else — someone naive, as Carlos had once been — might assume that she’d been ‘scared straight’ by the dressing down he’d given her earlier. That she was merely trying to be good.  
  
He hadn’t been that naive in what felt like a very long time.  
  
It was a message, he knew.  
  
Sure, he could get on her case about skipping out on console duty. He could. But she would undoubtedly claim that she’d merely misunderstood when he dismissed her. If she even bothered saying anything at all. And if he did that, then he strongly doubted that her next collar would be nearly so by the book.  
  
His life would be so much easier if he just let her do her own thing and didn’t try to get in her way.  
  
That was the message.  
  
And the really, **really** annoying thing about it wasn’t the fact that, most of the time, she acted like the rules didn’t apply to her; that he’d honestly started to wonder if she even knew how to follow procedure in the first place. Clearly, she did. She merely chose not to bother.  
  
But that still wasn’t the most annoying part.  
  
 No, the most annoying part was how tempted he was to just… let her have this one. To let her win. To take the easy road.  
  
Obviously, he was just a terrible team leader.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“So,” Carlos sighed, leaning perhaps a little more heavily against the headstone than he really needed. “There you have it, Omar: my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” He thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “Okay, maybe I am being a little bit melodramatic. Maybe it wasn’t **that** bad in the grand scheme of things. But, all in all, it could have been better.”  
  
Feeling restless all of a sudden, he paced back and forth in front of the grave, only just managing to hang onto his scarf when it tried to make a break for freedom as the wind picked up. He wrapped it around his neck a little tighter, making sure to anchor it by tucking the ends in.  
  
“I just feel like I haven’t the first clue what I’m doing as team leader, and any moment now they’re going to realise it and pass the title onto someone who actually deserves it. Like Dean.” He sighed. “I bet he’ll be a good leader.” A frown creased his brow. “Even if he did drop the ball a little earlier. But I guess everyone makes mistakes.”  
  
He paced back and forth some more.  
  
“I just hope my mistakes don’t end up getting someone hurt. Again.” He shook his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs. It was too much to hope that dissipating his insecurities and fears would be that easy. “But I should try to think positive, I guess. M-“ He broke off and glanced around. No one else in sight. Hardly surprising given that the cemetery was technically closed. But the gates were rusted open and the city didn’t care enough to employ a security guard willing to patrol the area after dark, there was no one to stop him dropping by on his way home. Still, better safe than sorry. “Hannah seems to think I’m not doing too awful a job, at least. So that’s something. I guess all I can do is try my best, right?”  
  
He smiled suddenly as a memory surfaced from somewhere in the depths of his mind.  
  
“Yeah, I know, Omar. ‘Do or do not, there is no try.’ God, how many times did you make me watch those films?” He laughed a little, and then had to stop, the sound choked into silence by the lump in his throat. “Fine,” he said, coming to a halt, letting his head fall forward a little. “I guess I’ll just have to ‘do,’ right? Because ‘doing not’ isn’t an option.” He took a deep breath and made himself stand up straight, pulling his shoulders back and clawing his hair back out of his eyes again.  
  
He really would go and pay Alfredo a visit sometime this week. Maybe even tomorrow, if he had time before his patrol. Eric would be pleased about that at least.  
  
As if the merely thinking about his boyfriend was enough to draw his attention, his phone buzzed with a message from the miscreant in question.  
  
‘So… I may have accidentally gotten myself invited to dinner at your place. Marisol’s trying to talk politics at me. Cora wants to know why boys are, and I quote: ‘so mean.’ Your mother wants the latest scoop on my cousin’s divorce and I think your father’s gearing up to ask me what my intentions are towards you. Please save me.’  
  
Carlos shook his head, grinning. There were about a hundred unanswered questions there, starting with how Eric had gotten himself ‘accidentally’ invited to dinner at his house, but those would probably benefit from being asked in person. So his reply simply said:  
  
‘On my way. Be there in about ten minutes.’  
  
A couple of minutes later, he got a reply to his reply: ‘My hero.’  
  
He couldn’t help it: he burst out laughing.  
  
 _Oh, Eric,_ he thought fondly. _You have **no** idea._  
  
But, for the first time, he found himself thinking that maybe, not anytime soon, but maybe someday in the not too terribly distant future…  
  
He might actually want him to.


	20. Agoraphobia 2.07

I stood there for a moment, helplessly watching Aegis leave to have his ’talk’ with Shadow Stalker. Maybe I should have tried harder to stop him. I really didn’t mean to get her in trouble. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the Wards would be so fucking **squeamish** about sparring injuries. The main reason I hadn’t wanted Aegis to see me was because I didn’t want him knowing how badly I’d lost the fight. I mean, way to give a truly fucking terrible impression of my combat ability. But the way both he and Dennis had seemed so utterly flabbergasted by the sight of me… Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what kind of a clown shoes outfit I’d just hitched myself to.  
  
But maybe Aegis just didn’t want to scare the new girl away. I was pretty sure he was already cutting me a lot of slack in other areas. For one thing, he hadn’t even hinted about punishing me for any of the infractions I’d committed in the short while since the briefing started. Or, technically, since before the briefing, assuming that putting Dennis in a wrist lock counted. I mean, I probably hadn’t left a bruise, or at least not much of one, but still. If Aegis wanted it to count, it would count. Except, assuming no one had blabbed while I’d been out of the room, he probably didn’t know about it yet.  
  
Well, there was no point in worrying about that now.  
  
Right now, I was more worried about how I was going to sit down without making it obvious just how stiff I was.  
  
Dennis abruptly got to his feet. He was still staring at me, I couldn’t help but notice, his expression a mixture of fascinated horror. Or, possibly, horrified fascination. Either way, it made me feel really fucking self-conscious right now.  
  
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I muttered, not even trying to conceal my irritation. Belatedly, it occurred to me that perhaps that hadn’t been the wisest thing to say. “Metaphorically, I mean.” I frowned. “Actually try to photograph me and I’ll break something. If you’re really lucky it’ll just be your phone.”  
  
“I’m not **that** much of an asshole,” he said, sounding vaguely offended.  
  
“Could’ve fooled me.” No. Wait. What was I doing? Biting his head off when he hadn’t even done anything — this time — was hardly the most sensible thing to do. Maybe I should hold off on picking a fight with another team mate until I’d actually recovered a little from my first scrap, hmm? Just a thought. I made myself take a slow, deep breath, trying to think soothing thoughts. “Sorry,” I muttered after a moment. I wasn’t going to get anywhere near ‘cheerful’ anytime soon, but at least I no longer sounded actively hostile. I hoped. “Feeling a little irritable at the moment.”  
  
I was still much calmer than I’d been before heading up to the gym, but that probably wasn’t saying much.  
  
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly, and then shook himself. “Sorry,” he said, bizarrely. “I’m not actually trying to be obnoxious, I swear, it’s just…” He looked me up and down, his gaze drawn unerringly back to the bruises on my face. “Doesn’t that hurt?”  
  
I shrugged, briefly holding my breath as the newly-reopened welts on my back pulled at the movement.  
  
“Not significantly,” I said, aiming for a careless tone and ending up somewhere closer to flat. Which was definitely better than sounding pained, so I wasn’t going to worry about it too much.  
  
“Not significantly,” Dennis echoed, giving me a distinctly dubious look. “What does that mean when it’s at home?”  
  
I sighed, feeling unaccountably tired all of a sudden.  
  
“It means that it’s just surface damage; nothing incapacitating. Which means it’s nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Uh huh.”  
  
I hadn’t realised it was possible for one person to radiate that much scepticism. I couldn’t believe how defensive it made me feel.  
  
“It looks worse than it really is,” I said. “Anyway, I’ve had far worse injuries from sparring and training.”  
  
Not **that** often, it was true, and those occasions tended to be the ones when I pushed Lance too far and he just lost it completely. Or when Dad was trying to teach me a very specific kind of lesson. (Like how it felt when a fight **didn’t** go your way. Like how to focus through pain and injury to fight back anyway, or to make an escape. After all, you couldn’t assume that you’d be in peak condition every single time you ran into trouble, so it made sense to prepare for worst case scenarios. It did.)  
  
But I couldn’t have Dennis — or anyone else — thinking I was anywhere near close to incapacitated. I certainly couldn’t have anyone thinking I wouldn’t be able to fight if I had to. And I sure as shit didn’t want Dennis — or Aegis, or whoever — feeling **sorry** for me.  
  
Dennis’ eyes, I belatedly realised, had gone saucer-wide. It occurred to me that maybe I should have stopped at telling him my injuries looked worse than they were. That maybe I should have just quit while I was behind. That maybe the second part… hadn’t exactly been the right thing to say. In fact, maybe it was entirely the wrong thing to say. It certainly didn’t seem to have had the reassuring effect I’d been hoping for.  
  
Words were really not my strong suit.  
  
“I have absolutely no idea what to say to that,” Dennis said after a moment. He shook his head. “You’re sure you don’t have any brute abilities?” That last part sounded almost plaintive.  
  
“Pretty damn sure,” I said. I only **wished** I’d gotten brute abilities. Not that the power I had wasn’t awesome, but it would also be fucking **fantastic** not to have to worry about getting hurt. Like, ever again. But this conversation was going nowhere fast, and was doing absolutely nothing to make me feel less self-conscious about my bruised and battered appearance. I tried to gather my scattered thoughts. (Just how hard **had** Shadow Stalker bounced my head off the ground, anyway? Or was it just the stress of the day catching up with me?) “Anyway,” I said firmly. “Where exactly would these ice packs be? In the freezer in the kitchen?”  
  
Dennis seemed to start a little.  
  
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Yes, they’re in the freezer. But I’ll get it, don’t worry. You just… Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you can, anyway.” He flapped his hand vaguely in the direction of  the sofa.  
  
“I can get it myself,” I said tightly. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”  
  
“Oh, for crying out loud!” He raised his hands as if in supplication, turning his eyes to the heavens. Well, to the dome of the ceiling, at any rate. “Scion save me from stubborn girls,” he muttered. “I swear, you’re worse than Vista.” I frowned, not entirely certain how to take that. “Look,” he said firmly, dropping his hands and looking me directly in the eyes. “Think of it this way: Carlos told me to look after you, and that includes fetching the damn ice pack. So don’t get me in trouble with the boss-man, okay?”  
  
Well, when he put it that way…  
  
“Fine,” I said, grudgingly, forcing myself to add an even more reluctant: “Thank you.”  
  
“Well, **that** wasn’t like pulling teeth at all,” he said. I glowered at him, but he just grinned, apparently completely unintimidated. I was obviously losing my touch. “Sit down,” he said, “Please. You’re making me ache in sympathy, and I’ll have you know that I’m highly allergic to physical discomfort.”  
  
I rolled my eyes — there was no way I was going to dignify that with a response — and went to grab a chair.  
  
“Seriously?” Dennis said. “You’re actually going for a chair when there’s a perfectly fine sofa right here? Anyway, I’m pretty sure that those chairs were actually intended as torture devices, and were just shipped here by mistake.” He shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Or the director did it on purpose after one too many ‘Miss Piggy’ jokes.”  
  
I shook my head, too tired even to muster up much disgust at such cavalier disrespect for the person at the top of the chain of command. But, on reflection, he wasn’t exactly wrong about the chairs, and…  
  
Oh, fuck it. The sofa **would** be more comfortable. Hell, a concrete block would probably be more comfortable than those chairs right now. In fact…  
  
“I bet they were were designed by the same asshole responsible for those abominations outside Captain Cavendish’s office,” I muttered, hoping I didn’t look too awkward as I carefully settled myself on the sofa.  
  
Dennis grimaced. “My commiserations,” he said, and I didn’t think he was being entirely sarcastic. “Anyway, I’d better go and get you that ice pack. Do you want anything else while I’m going?”  
  
I thought for a moment. “A glass of water, please. And can you grab two ice packs? Thanks.”  
  
I had a sudden strong sense of déjà vu, remembering making a similar request of Lance the night of our trip to the cabin. It remained to be seen whether Dennis would turn out to be as much of an asshole as my brother. So far… signs weren’t looking great. He hadn’t tried to smack me around yet, I supposed, but then the day was far from over.  
  
“Just water? Seriously? You don’t want something full of caffeinated, carbonated, sugary goodness? And what about a snack? No one’s going to judge you for indulging in a little comfort eating after going a few rounds with Shadow Stalker.”  
  
I marshalled every last scrap of my patience and self-control not to growl my response.  
  
“I told you,” I said, my words very, very controlled and precisely enunciated. “I don’t drink soda. And I don’t snack on junk food.”  
  
(I was a little startled to realise how much I sounded like Dad when he was really pissed off, but I shoved that thought away as soon as it formed. I was **nothing** like him.)  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you said.” The dismissive note in his voice put my hackles right up. Was the bastard saying he didn’t believe me? Why the fuck would I lie? “But I won’t tell if you won’t.”  
  
What the hell was this asshole’s problem?  
  
“Just water and ice packs. That’s all I need.”  
  
“Well, if you’re sure…” He shrugged and — fortunately for both of us — headed off in the direction of the kitchen. Traitorous though the thought seemed, I was having serious doubts about Aegis’ judgement in assigning Dennis to look after me. Not that I **needed** anyone to look after me, but if he was going to insist on it, why not someone who wasn’t actively obnoxious? Honestly, **Clockblocker** was just lucky I’d managed to work off a little stress sparring with Shadow Stalker. And that I didn’t actually feel like picking another fight quite yet.  
  
I made no promises about tomorrow, though.  
  
On the plus side, the sofa **was** undeniably more comfortable than the chair had been, although I didn’t want to think about how I was going to extricate myself from the soft cushions when I had to get up again. I guessed I’d just have to solve that problem when I got to it. Although it was probably weak of me, I had to acknowledge that it was something of a relief to be off my feet. Grudgingly, reluctantly, I was forced to admit to myself that maybe Dennis had had a point after all.  
  
Not that I was planning on letting **him** know that.  
  
“Cold, cold, cold, ow, cold!” he yelped as he came into view again, juggling the ice packs in quite a comical fashion. I couldn’t quite stifle a small grin at his antics.  
  
“I’m glad that my misery amuses you,” he said, but there didn’t seem to be any real heat behind it.  
  
“I appreciate your sacrifice,” I told him.  
  
He came to a halt in front of me, looking oddly uncertain for a brief moment.  
  
“Do you want me to apply them, or…?”  
  
“No!” I said swiftly, softening it with a: “Thank you. I’ve got it.” I took the ice packs out of his unresisting hands before he could do something unwise, like make a move towards me. He didn’t move away immediately, though, so I eyed him cautiously. (My heart was suddenly racing, and a part of my mind was working out the best way to take him down.) “Would you mind giving me some space?”  
  
“I’ll go and get you that water,” he said, heading away again. (I didn’t realise until he’d moved out of range, allowing me to relax and take a breath, just how very tense I’d been.)  
  
I mentally shook myself. Okay, enough woolgathering: I really needed to apply these ice packs before Dennis came back and offered to help again. I ignored the tiny, traitorous thought that said maybe I could have actually used a little help, especially when my bad wrist proved a little… recalcitrant. Still, between my metal, and a little judicious reshaping of the ice packs, I made it work out. When Dennis returned with my water — and, I couldn’t help noting, a rather bewildering array of snacks and fizzy drinks — I had one ice pack on my wrist and one on my face. He stared unashamedly, but all he said aloud was:  
  
“This is for you,” as he handed me a bottle of water. A glass of tap water would have been fine, but there didn’t seem much point in saying anything. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, even if the only reason I was letting him fetch and carry for me was because Aegis had ordered it. “But feel free to help yourself to any of this bounty if you like.” He collapsed onto the sofa next to me, dumping the miscellaneous snacks and drinks between us.  
  
“I’m good with just the water, thanks,” I told him, giving the so-called ‘bounty’ a dubious look. I tried not to shudder at the thought of all those empty calories and E-numbers.  
  
“More for me, then,” he proclaimed cheerfully, opening a bag of Cheetos and crunching away. Vista was right, I couldn’t help noting: that orange stuff was going **everywhere**.  
  
I went to open my water bottle, and discovered a problem. Between my wrist’s stiffness, and the ice pack wrapped around it, I could neither grip the cap tightly enough to twist it off, nor brace the bottle well enough to open it left-handed.  
  
Shit.  
  
“Uh, want me to get that for you?” Dennis asked, having apparently noticed my predicament.  
  
“That’s okay,” I said tightly. “I’ve got it.” A minor flare of power, and the cap wasn’t a problem any more. It wasn’t that big a thing, but I still felt pleased with myself as I took a sip of cool, delicious water.  
  
“So I see,” he said, looking thoughtful. A moment later, he asked: “You said your power works on skin contact, right?”  
  
“Right,” I said, cautiously, wondering where this was going.  
  
“So how come you managed to stick my feet to the floor? I mean, you were wearing shoes.”  
  
I attempted a mysterious smile. Given that my face was swollen and bruised — and partly concealed by an ice pack — I’d be surprised if the overall effect was even close to what I intended, but surely the effort had to count for something.  
  
“That would be telling.”  
  
“Well **duh** ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I’m asking. Because I want to know.”  
  
“A girl’s got to have some secrets,” I told him loftily. I took another deep draft of water and resealed the bottle to stop it spilling before shoving it between myself and the sofa arm. I would have set it down on the floor by my feet, but I kind of wanted to keep the bending up and down to a minimum.  
  
Dennis sighed heavily.  
  
“Fine. Be like that.” The words weren’t quite the same, and the tone even less so, but for a moment I could see Lance’s face, and the way it had twisted with hatred and bitterness when he’d thought I was refusing to tell him how I triggered. I couldn’t breathe for a moment, my heart thudding painfully in my chest, but then I managed to push the feeling aside and focus on the here and now. A little dazedly, I realised that Dennis was still talking. “-least you could do is answer some of my other questions. Right?”  
  
He glared angrily- No, wait. He was just looking at me, eyebrows raised and an exaggeratedly hopeful expression plastered on his face.  
  
I blinked at him, feeling weirdly disoriented.  
  
“What do you want to know?” I asked the question mainly to cover my confusion, rather than because I actually intended to tell him a damn thing.  
  
“Well, for starters, I’m kind of curious about the ‘training’ your dad gave you. What did it involve?” He made air quotes around ‘training,’ like an asshole. But… I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to tell him something. Maybe if I could convince him he had all the relevant information — and it wasn’t nearly as interesting as he seemed to think it was — he wouldn’t ask any further questions.  
  
I started to shrug, and then stopped. (Yeah, I would definitely not be sleeping on my back tonight.)  
  
“General fitness. Close quarters combat. Survival.” I supposed I probably shouldn’t mention the weapons training, especially the firearms. I definitely shouldn’t mention the lessons in breaking and entering, how to identify a stash house, and other such hard to explain skill sets. “A few other useful things.” That would cover a multitude of sins.  
  
“And you…” He hesitated for a moment, briefly seeming oddly uncertain. “Sparred with him? As part of the combat training?”  
  
“Yeah. And with my brother.” And various members of Dad’s squad but, again, I probably shouldn’t mention that.  
  
Again, there was that strange flicker of uncertainty, or whatever it was, but then he grinned at me. Annoyingly. “Well,” he said. “At least you should be good at street fighting.”  
  
I stared blankly at him, trying to parse his meaning.  
  
“You mean the fighting rings?” I tried cautiously, after racking my brains. It was the only thing I could think of that made even vague sense. From the way Dennis’ mouth fell open and he stared at me in disbelief, it seemed I’d guessed wrong. Again.  
  
Fuck, I was bad at this.  
  
“I was talking about the computer game.” His voice sounded rather strangled, but the reference finally clicked into place.  
  
“Oh, **Streetfighter**.” I vaguely remembered Lance talking about playing it with one of his friends. Had that been the place before Brockton Bay, or the one before that? I couldn’t remember. “I think I misheard you.”  
  
Dennis was still staring, and there was a speculative look in his eyes that I really didn’t like.  
  
“You were, what, in some kind of underground fight club?”  
  
“No, of course not,” I said irritably. I’d watched a few bouts, but I’d never actually taken part. Dad wouldn’t let me. Not that I’d really wanted to, outside of a professional curiosity as to how I’d match up against the fighters. He’d said I could learn a lot from watching them, though, and he’d actually seemed pleased at my interest. According to him, it was something I shared with my mother. That made me feel… kind of weird, actually. And maybe sort of good? But also sort of… not. And kind of uncomfortable. But Dennis was looking thoughtful, and I doubted that meant anything good. Maybe I could head off his curiosity. “I just knew some people who were at one point.” Why the fuck was he still looking at me like that? “It’s not that big a deal. I just misheard you, that’s all.”  
  
“New Girl,” he pronounced with mock-solemnity. “You are **interesting**. And I am very much looking forward to finding out every last one of your secrets.”  
  
Shit! That was the absolute **last** thing I wanted! How had I managed to fuck this up so badly?  
  
“I have a fucking **name** ,” I growled, falling back on the familiarity of anger to cover just how rattled I was. “And it’s not ’New Girl.’ But if you’re trying to piss me off, just keep talking, asshole.”  
  
I was half-expecting him to get up and leave. Or, at the very least, to shut his goddamn yap before I shut it for him. (Not that I was actually intending such a thing, but I fancied I gave a decent impression of being willing and able to do so.) What I was absolutely not expecting was for that **motherfucker** to smirk at me and say:  
  
“You’re cute when you try to be intimidating.”  
  
I damn near choked at that. My face almost certainly went as red as a tomato, although I had no idea how visible it was with all the bruising. I glowered at my **asshole** team mate with all the fury I could pack into the expression.  
  
(Even though, on some level, I couldn’t help feeling a reluctant twinge of something not entirely unlike admiration for his willingness to snark in the face of danger.)  
  
(But he was still a fucking asshole. On that point I remained absolutely unwavering.)  
  
Gathering every last scrap of my dignity — far less than I was comfortable admitting to myself — I drew myself up and told him: “I am **not** cute.”  
  
I hoped the disgust in my tone conveyed exactly what I thought of that notion. ‘Cute’ was for petite girls who giggled and flipped their hair at boys. It most certainly didn’t apply to the likes of me! It was almost — but not quite — as bad as fucking **adorable**.  
  
“Sure you are,” he told me, seemingly blithely unaware of the danger he was in. “And when you get flustered like that, it’s positively adorable.” He made an abortive movement with his hand, and I tensed, my metal rippling forward to wrap around my hands. Dennis froze in place, wincing. “Ah, not going to try and pat you on the head again, don’t worry. Or ruffle your hair. Or go anywhere near you at all.”  
  
I glared at him, and made myself stand down, returning my metal to its resting place. It was easier than it had been earlier, but if he kept pushing me like this, sooner or later I **was** going to do something… unfortunate. Maybe I should go and see if Shadow Stalker would be up for another sparring match. Maybe tomorrow. Or, I amended, as I shifted in place and various parts of my body complained at me, perhaps I should wait until the day after.  
  
“Good boy,” I ground out. “So you **can** learn. I was starting to wonder.”  
  
“Sure, I can learn,” he said cheerfully, sprawling back in his seat. (I noted that I hadn’t been the only one who’d tensed. Maybe he wasn’t entirely oblivious to danger after all.) “I learn stuff all the time. For example, just now, I’ve learned that messing with you is a **lot** of fun. Like, seriously. Not only do you get hilariously discombobulated, there’s that frisson of excitement from knowing that at any moment you might snap and do…” His voice took on that sly note I was coming to dread. “Unspeakable things to me.” It felt like my blush spread from my hairline all the way down to the base of my neck, although maybe that was just psychological. How the fuck did he manage to make the idea of me losing my temper and decking him sound so very **filthy**? That was really and truly (impressive) **annoying**. “It’s really quite… bracing,” he finished, smirking.  
  
I shook my head, trying to shove away the unexpected, unwanted flare of amusement that accompanied the inevitable irritation.  
  
“You really don’t have a survival instinct, do you? What, did you have it removed to make room for what I’ll charitably call your sense of humour?”  
  
Dennis grinned. “Survival instincts are overrated,” he said, dismissively. “Anyway, I’ve made it this far, so I figure I’ll continue to take my chances.” He pressed a hand to his chest, looking into the distance faux-nobly like a character from one of those cheesy old pre-cape superhero comics. “I have a gift. It would be unfair of me not to share it with the world, regardless of any risk to life and limb.” He dropped the pose and shrugged, grinning. “Besides, what’s life without a little risk?”  
  
“You’re an idiot,” I told him, shaking my head again. “And an asshole. But,” I conceded, reluctantly. “Maybe, occasionally, you’re **almost** an entertaining asshole.”  
  
Goddammit! I really did not want to like this fucker. Not even a little. But he wasn’t **entirely** unfunny, I supposed. And I couldn’t help but be a little bit appreciative of his willingness to risk actual bodily harm in the name of humour.  
  
“You **do** like me!” he practically squealed, clapping his hands together and, somewhat ridiculously, **actually** fluttering his fucking eyelashes at me. “I knew it!”  
  
I snorted.  
  
“Let’s not get crazy now. I’ve managed to spend a few minutes in your company without smacking you, that’s all.” I gave him a slightly feral smile. “But the day is still young. So, y’know, feel free to keep pushing me if you want.”  
  
“This is the start of a beautiful friendship,” he quipped. “I can tell.”  
  
“Sure it is,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.  
  
“Or maybe more,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at me while I blushed furiously. “I mean, you do keep threatening to put your hands on me. That’s got to come from somewhere.”  
  
“The urge to beat you senseless for saying really stupid and annoying shit?” I snapped back, wondering how the fuck I could have ever thought he was anywhere close to funny. Seriously, he was a fucking **asshole**.  
  
“Kinky,” he said, smirking. “But not my bag, I’m afraid. Like I said, I’m kind of allergic to physical discomfort. You want to revisit the whole powers-bondage thing, though, we can talk.”  
  
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I had literally no idea what to say. I wasn’t even angry, that was the weird thing. I kind of wished I was — I knew how to deal with that. But I just felt really fucking uncomfortable. I had to say **something** though, so I took a breath and tried again.  
  
“Fuck off, Dennis,” I said, wincing inside at my strangled tone. I’d been aiming for firm, dammit! “Just stop talking.”  
  
Without really intending to move, I started to get to my feet. (It was more of a struggle than I really cared to admit, especially when I tried to support myself with my bad wrist and it gave way. Even with the fucking splint. God-fucking-dammit! I really needed to be careful with it.)  
  
“Hey, careful,” Dennis said. He sounded startled, and something else I couldn’t quite place. “What are you…? Do you need something? I can get it for you if you tell me what it is. I mean, unless you need the bathroom or something, I guess. I can’t really help you with that. But if there’s anything else you need, just tell me and…” I glanced over at him, frowning, wondering why he sounded so weird. He winced. “I’m going to stop babbling now,” he muttered, and it sounded like it was addressed more to himself than to me. He took a breath. “Do you need a hand?”  
  
“No,” I growled. “I don’t need a goddamn thing from you. I’m just going to my room.” Despite my best efforts, my breath caught in my throat as I managed to twist at just the wrong angle and tug at the welts on my back again. To cover my momentary discomfiture, I paused to glower at Dennis and snarl: “The company here fucking sucks.”  
  
It would be better if I left. Safer for him, certainly. I was just… having a little trouble getting to my feet right now. Fuck. Why wouldn’t my body just work right? Was that too much to ask? It wasn’t like I was badly hurt or anything. I’d taken worse injuries than this before and managed to remain functional. What the fuck was wrong with me? Was I going soft? Was Lance right about me? Was I really that weak? No, I wouldn’t accept that. I couldn’t. I was just going to have to try harder, that was all. I would have to be better. I just… I…  
  
My power started to reach out into the floor, trying to draw metal forth to shore up my failing flesh. There was a moment where I was tempted just to let it happen, but then the moment passed. I let the metal sink back into its slumber. I didn’t bother to repair my split shoes and socks, though, finding comfort in my awareness of the building.  
  
I remembered what I’d thought yesterday, as Gallant brought me down in the elevator to meet some of my prospective team mates: world’s biggest fucking security blanket.  
  
Maybe I would just sit here for a few moments longer while I gathered my strength. Such as it was. Right now, I was really starting to wonder if I had a right to think of myself as strong at all.  
  
“You don’t have to leave,” Dennis said, and his tone still sounded kind of weird. Maybe something not entirely unlike… guilt? No, that couldn’t possibly be right. “I’ll go, if you want. You should just… rest. Let the ice packs do their thing. However little that is.” He gave them a dubious glance, and then mustered up a small smile from somewhere, even though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But Carlos would never forgive me if I let you hurt yourself trying to get away from me.”  
  
“I’m fine,” I said, tightly. “Just a little stiff, that’s all.”  
  
He started to reply, and then stopped, heaving an entirely far too melodramatic sigh. “If you only knew the willpower it took to swallow that response unspoken,” he muttered, giving me a reproachful look.  
  
Somewhat incongruously, a highly inappropriate response of my own came to mind. I thought about resisting, but some imp of the perverse made me think ‘what the hell?’ and say it anyway.  
  
“So you swallow, do you?” I said, smirking just a little bit. “That’s interesting to know.”  
  
I was sure my face had just turned bright crimson, and I felt really fucking awkward even thinking something like that, let alone actually saying it out loud. (And I couldn’t help tensing a little in case he took it the wrong way and responded… badly. If he thought I was seriously calling him…) But it was **totally** worth it to see the look on his face.  
  
“Well I never!” he said after a moment, recovering his composure enough to ham it up again. “You shock me, New Girl. And here I had you pegged as such a shy young thing.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, feeling deeply, thoroughly embarrassed. (Not to mention relieved that he seemed to be taking it in the spirit in which it was intended.) “I guess Gallant was right — your so-called sense of humour really is contagious. Like a horrible disease.”  
  
“Are you saying I’ve corrupted you?” He drew himself up, looking unutterably, insufferably, **punchably** smug. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“You would,” I sighed, trying to settle myself a little more comfortably on the sofa. “You really are just that insufferable.”  
  
“I resemble that implication,” he shot back, still sounding way too pleased with himself. I just rolled my eyes. There was really no point in dignifying that with a response. “So, ah,” he continued after a moment, sounding a little awkward. “Do you want me to go, or…”  
  
I gave a careful, one-shouldered shrug.  
  
“Don’t leave on my account. I suppose I can just about tolerate your presence for a little while longer. At least until your next bout of obnoxiousness.”  
  
“Sweet!” he said. “I didn’t really want to have to drag myself away from the sofa. And the big screen. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a sacrifice I was prepared to make — mainly because you’re just so gosh-darned **cute** — but I’m glad I don’t have to.”  
  
I thought about calling him out on the whole ‘cute’ thing, but something told me that the more I objected, the more he’d keep doing it. Maybe if I just didn’t react, he’d get bored and drop it. Maybe.  
  
“You’re all heart,” I said instead, sarcastically.  
  
“I know,” he agreed shamelessly. “I really, really am.”  
  
He gave me a very thoughtful look. I had a sinking feeling.  
  
“What?” I asked cautiously.  
  
“I was just thinking…”  
  
“That can’t be a good sign.”  
  
“That’s a very mean thing to say,” he told me, with great dignity. “But I will let it slide on account of the fact that you’re new, and I’m just nice like that.” I made a disparaging noise, which he completely ignored in favour of fixing me with a surprisingly intense look. “So,” he said, and even his voice was intense; low and surprisingly serious. “It’s just you and me, and this huge, comfy sofa. So I was thinking…” He smiled slowly, suggestively, a wicked glint in his eyes as he leaned forward and said: “Want to play computer games together?”  
  
“Um,” I said, completely nonplussed.  
  
Dennis, the asshole, burst out laughing.  
  
“I told you before, New Girl, you need to get your mind out of the gutter. Or, you know, don’t.” And the bastard actually winked at me. Son of a **bitch**! As I tried to recover my composure — I thought my dignity was more or less a lost cause at this point — he snagged the controllers from the floor and held one of them out to me. “But, for the moment, how about a little simulated violence?” He waggled the controller. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Gaming, like so many activities, is much more enjoyable with company than it is solo.”  
  
There were so many things I could say in response to that, most of them featuring expletives, but in the end I decided it was easier just to take his words at face value and carefully not think about any other possible meanings. It was almost certainly better for my blood pressure that way.  
  
“Can’t right now,” I said shortly, gesturing at my right arm. “Sprained wrist. Need to keep it immobilised for a little while.”  
  
“Oh. Right,” he said a little uncertainly, before rallying to say: “Well, mind if I indulge? You can just watch.” His smirk returned, because of course it did. “Watching can be fun, too.”  
  
I thought about glaring at him, but in the end it was just too much effort.  
  
“Knock yourself out,” I told him. “Although I don’t know an awful lot about computer games. I’ve never really played any.”  
  
Well, not **never** never, but near enough as to make no practical difference. I did have a vague memory of playing something that featured some kind of blue mover-type character. That was quite a while ago now, though. I’d been at a friend’s house — some girl called Tiffany. Or Tamara. Tina? Something beginning with T, anyway. She’d had a games console. (This was obviously back before I realised that having friends, having ties, was a weakness, not a strength.) T-whoever had had other games, but that was the one that stuck in my memory for some reason.  
  
Anyway, we’d never had a console or anything at home — Dad didn’t really approve of such distractions, especially not for me — and without friends to hang around with outside the house… Computer games were just another one of those things that never really played much of a role in my life.  
  
“You’ve… never…” Dennis stared at me with what looked a lot like horror. It was, I noted, not entirely dissimilar to the expression he’d worn when I’d said that I didn’t drink soda. He started to reach out, and then clearly thought better of it when I twitched at the movement, contenting himself with a sorrowful shake of his head. “Oh, you poor unfortunate soul. **Now** I see why our paths have crossed in this manner. Clearly the universe has decided that you need help, and has blessed you with my presence.”  
  
“Cursed, more like,” I murmured, a little bemused (and, much to my chagrin, more than a little amused) by his over the top reaction.  
  
“Hush, child, that’s just the trauma talking,” he told me, adopting a soothing tone. “But never fear, I’m here now, and this shocking state of affairs will not be allowed to continue. This I vow on my honour, both as a hero and as a gamer.”  
  
“Honour?” I repeated sceptically. “Really?” I shook my head. “They’re just computer games. Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit melodramatic?”  
  
Which was something of a gigantic fucking understatement. Like saying Brockton Bay was a **bit** fucked up, or that Winslow was a **bit** of a shithole. (That I was a little bit scared of what Dad was going to do to me if he ever got his hands on me again.)  
  
“You wash your mouth out, young lady,” he said indignantly. “ **Just** computer games indeed. But I know you simply don’t know any better yet, and so I will find the strength to forgive your blasphemy. This time.” As he spoke, he started fiddling with his controller, selecting options on the screen almost faster than I could read them. “Right!” he said, triumphantly. “Be prepared, my young apprentice. Be prepared for the scales of ignorance and indifference to fall from your eyes as they feast upon the glory that is…” He paused for emphasis, and then in an almost reverent tone, pronounced a single word: “Halo.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Watching Dennis play computer games was, I grudgingly admitted to myself a little while later, not entirely awful. In fact, if pressed, I might even go so far as to say it was a little bit entertaining. A little bit. Even if some of his tactical choices left something to be desired as he flailed around.  
  
Well… okay. Maybe he wasn’t **flailing** as such. Maybe he wasn’t actually doing badly at all. Maybe he was even doing quite… well? I guessed that meant he probably did know what he was doing after all. Not that I was an expert or anything, but he didn’t seem to die that many times, and he completed the different… missions? Levels? Whatever he called them, he seemed to zip through them fairly quickly, even while being relaxed enough to keep up a running commentary as he went. Wonder of wonders, that running commentary didn’t even make me want to punch him in the face. Well, not generally. I might even admit, reluctantly, and only in the privacy of my own head, to finding some of his comments amusing. A little bit. A little tiny bit.  
  
But the restlessness was starting to set in again; that nagging feeling that maybe I should be doing something useful, rather than slacking off. (‘If you’re truly at a loss for productive ways to occupy your time, girl, I’m sure I can come up with something.’) Maybe I should go and get some schoolwork. Or, I supposed, I could make a start on mapping out the structure of the Wards HQ. Honestly, that was much more tempting to me right now. Anyway, it was getting close to the time when I’d have to go and get ready for my meeting with Ms Grant. I definitely wanted to change into something a bit smarter than gym clothes for that. And I should probably allow myself a little extra time to get to her office, on account of how stiff I was right now…  
  
Movement caught my eye, and I glanced up to see Shadow Stalker heading purposefully towards me. She was wearing her coat again, I noted. She must have gone up to the gym to retrieve it at some point after I’d left. I kept an eye on her, wondering if she was here to retaliate for me getting her in trouble with Aegis. (She wasn’t moving stiffly or anything as far as I could tell, so maybe Aegis hadn’t been too hard on her after all. Maybe he’d just let her off with a warning.) In my peripheral vision, I saw Dennis glance up, his running commentary drying up completely when he noticed Shadow Stalker. Even though, as far as I could tell, she didn’t spare him so much as a glance. No, all her attention seemed to be firmly fixed on me.  
  
I braced myself, ready to move, prepared to drop or disintegrate the ice packs if necessary. I had absolutely no idea how this was going to go, but I wanted to be ready for anything.  
  
She came to a halt just far enough away that I’d have to take a step forward to put her in arm’s reach, her stance relaxed but ready to move.  
  
“Astrid,” she said, her tone challenging, but not hostile.  
  
“Shadow Stalker,” I said, matching her tone.  
  
Dennis, to my surprise, didn’t say a single thing. But the bulk of my attention was focused squarely on Shadow Stalker, wondering if this was going to turn into round two. Or round whatever.  
  
“Aegis tells me I got a little too real with you,” she said, and now she sounded… amused.  
  
Fucking **bitch**.  
  
Almost before I knew it, I was on my feet, the ice packs falling away to land on the sofa behind me. I took half a step forward, not quite closing the distance — not yet — but definitely making a statement. I drew myself up to my full height, almost surprised to realise just how short Shadow Stalker was. I must have had a good half head or so on her, maybe even a little more, and I was a fuck of a lot broader built.  
  
(In a distant part of my mind, I was amused to realise that the size difference between me and her was about the same as that between Lance and me. It was enough to make me think that a non-powers fight between us might go somewhat… differently to the earlier sparring match. Not that I would dismiss her out of hand, of course. After all, the fights between Lance and me were often a testament to the fact that bloody-minded viciousness could often trump even a significant size and strength advantage.)  
  
“If **that’s** what you want to call getting real,” I scoffed. “Like I said: I was hit harder than that when I was in grade school. And I never asked Aegis to talk to you. I’m no snitch.”  
  
Would she believe me? I had no fucking clue. So I held position while she stared at me behind that mask of hers. After what felt like an eternity, but what couldn’t have been more than a second or so, she nodded slowly.  
  
“Good to know,” she said, and there was something that sounded like approval in her voice. Of course, she had to go and spoil it by adding: “Does this mean I haven’t scared you off sparring with me again?”  
  
I laughed in her face.  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I told her. “This…” I gestured to my visible damage. “Isn’t even worth worrying about. You want to **scare** me, you’re going to have to get creative.”  
  
“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said, and I had a moment’s unease as I wondered what I’d just let myself in for. It didn’t matter, though: it wasn’t like I was going to back down. Not now, not ever. That wasn’t the way I was wired.  
  
“Good,” I said carelessly, like merely standing up straight wasn’t hard enough right now, like I thought I could go again if she wanted to. I mean, if she **did** want to, I would do my damnedest to oblige but **fuck** … It was probably weak of me, but I **really** hoped she didn’t. “Of course,” I added. “I’m kind of curious to see how well you fight when you can’t rely on that power of yours to keep you out of trouble. What do you say we try it the old fashioned way next time?”  
  
“Why, because that’s the only way you have a chance of winning?” She sounded amused, but there was something else there, something I couldn’t quite place. I wished I could see her expression.  
  
I shrugged, like it didn’t matter to me one way or another. (Like the movement didn’t make me feel like the newly-formed scabs were about to rip open again.)  
  
“Like I said: just curious. If you’re worried, though, I can always try not to play too rough with you.”  
  
“Be as rough as you like,” she snapped, sounding annoyed. “I’m not worried.”  
  
I gave her a lopsided smile, more amused than pissed off at the slight to my fighting ability. For the first time since leaving the gym, I actually felt like I was on familiar ground. I **knew** this dance; could navigate the steps and turns in my sleep.  
  
“Glad to hear it,” I said. “Does tomorrow work for you?”  
  
She paused again before replying, and I didn’t have the first clue what was going through her head.  
  
“I’m busy tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll let you know when I’m free.”  
  
I tried to tell myself I wasn’t relieved that I would have at least a day to rest and recover. Not in the slightest. I didn’t come close to believing myself.  
  
“You know where to find me,” I said.  
  
She nodded and turned to leave, striding quickly in the direction of the exit. Once at the door, however, she paused and looked back.  
  
“Glad we finally have someone who doesn’t need to be coddled.” She paused a moment, and I tried to think of something to say to that. Before I managed it, though, she nodded. “Astrid,” she said, and it sounded like a goodbye.  
  
“Shadow Stalker,” I said, in much the same tone.  
  
“See you around.”  
  
Before I could say anything else, she left. I guessed she’d wanted to make sure she had the last word. For some reason, though, I found I didn’t actually mind all that much.  
  
“Fuck. Me.” Dennis’ voice startled me a little. I hadn’t quite forgotten he was there but, well. His presence just didn’t seem that important while I was talking to Shadow Stalker. I glanced over at him and he dragged his gaze from the now-empty doorway to fix me with a disbelieving stare. His game controller lay forgotten in his lap. “I think you just made a friend,” he continued.  
  
“Oh,” I said, not really knowing what to say. “Cool, I guess.”  
  
Was that really what making friends looked like? I wouldn’t know.  
  
“That’s one word for it,” he muttered, looking quite… disturbed? What was **wrong** with him? Coming to reasonable terms with one of my new team mates was a good thing, wasn’t it? Or had he just meant it sarcastically? I really sucked at social stuff. And yet, I couldn’t help observing, my exchange with Shadow Stalker had actually felt… natural. Like I didn’t have to second-guess my every word. Like my instincts were steering me right, not wrong.  
  
I felt like I actually had a hope in hell of knowing exactly where I stood with her, and that was something I needed more than anything right now: to know where I stood. To know what my place was. To know what was expected of me.  
  
But, if I could figure things out with her, then maybe I actually had a chance of doing something similar with the rest of them. After all, I’d managed to interact with Dennis without completely freaking him the fuck out, or snapping, or fucking up in some other way. Maybe there was hope for me yet.  
  
Dennis shook himself.  
  
“So,” he said, in a more normal tone of voice. “Want to get comfortable and watch me being awesome some more?”  
  
He must have been rattled. He hadn’t made a joke, or tried to fluster me, or smirked obnoxiously, or anything. I made a mental note that, apparently, all I had to do to discombobulate him was have a halfway civil conversation with Shadow Stalker.  
  
Good to know.  
  
I checked my watch and shook my head.  
  
“I have a meeting with Ms Grant soon. I should go and get changed.”  
  
“Fair enough,” he said. “Have fun.”  
  
“I’m not sure fun is on the agenda,” I observed dryly. “But I’ll try.”  
  
Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure what **was** on the agenda. Ms Grant hadn’t been entirely clear. She’d just said that there were things she needed to discuss with me, and told me to come to her office at seventeen hundred hours. Well, I guessed I would find out soon enough what it was about.  
  
I started to bend to pick up the ice packs but, much to my surprise, Dennis scooped them up and handed them to me.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, a little confused. I guessed it must have showed in my face or voice, because he gave me a lopsided grin.  
  
“I’m not an asshole all the time,” he said, and handed me my water bottle.  
  
“Thanks,” I said again, feeling a little awkward. I tried to cover it with humour. “So you’re just an asshole some of the time?”  
  
“I like to mix things up a bit,” he said airily, continuing with his game. “Keep people on their toes.”  
  
“I see,” I said, not entirely sure whether he was being serious. “Well, I’d better get a move on. Have fun kicking alien ass.”  
  
“Oh, I intend to,” he said, firing up his game again. I left him to it.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

As I left to go and meet Ms Grant, I found myself thinking back to the conversation I’d had with Shadow Stalker, and I stepped a little lighter through the seemingly endless stairways and corridors of the PRT building.  
  
No matter what happened from here on out, at least there was one thing I could take comfort in. One point of reference in this strange and bewildering new life of mine.  
  
At least there was someone in this crazy place who was **normal**.


	21. Agoraphobia 2.08

Ms Grant was getting to her feet as I entered the office, gathering up some papers and shoving them into her bag.  
  
“Hello Astrid,” she said. “I’m really sorry to do this, but I’m afraid I have to step out for a few minutes. Something’s come up that I have to deal with right away. Please wait here for me until I return. I shouldn’t be gone long.”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant,” I acknowledged.  
  
She gave me a slightly distracted smile and started to hurry towards the door, only to stop dead as she drew level with me. Her gaze flicked over my face, and I stifled the urge to pull my mask down a little bit more. Damn. I’d been hoping that it concealed enough of the swelling that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious under the patina of old bruises. I’d also been hoping that Ms Grant wasn’t perceptive enough to notice. Apparently both of those hopes had been nothing but wishful thinking on my part. She frowned now, looking me dead in the eyes, despite the fact that she had to tilt her chin up at what had to have been quite an uncomfortable angle to do so.  
  
“We will discuss your new injuries when I get back,” she said, killing my faint hope that she would just let them pass unremarked. The determination in her voice gave me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something told me that she wouldn’t be as easy to fob off as various of my teachers over the years; the ones who asked questions because they felt they had to, but who didn’t really want to know the answers. It didn’t take much to persuade the likes of them to back off. Ms Grant, though, struck me as the persistent type.  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant,” I said, trying not to sound as apprehensive as I felt. I wasn’t as successful as I might have hoped.  
  
She looked like she wanted to say something else, but in the end she just sighed and hitched her bag further up on her shoulder.  
  
“I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” she said. “Quarter of an hour, tops.” There was a grim note in her voice as she added: “If it does take longer than that, someone’s going to have some explaining to do.” I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for whoever that someone was. (I hoped I never gave her cause to be angry at me.) There didn’t seem to be an awful lot to say to that, so I just nodded like an idiot. Ms Grant checked her watch. “See you shortly,” she said. She sounded distant, like her mind was already on her upcoming meeting.  
  
“Goodbye,” I replied.  
  
On that note, she clattered quickly out of the door, closing it behind her. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I moved to stand in a rest position before the desk. (Standing wasn’t too much of a chore, and I didn’t eye the chairs at all longingly. Nor did I think to myself that, even though they were mismatched, and had definitely seen better days, the one I’d sat in earlier had actually been reasonably comfortable. Certainly more comfortable than those rotten bastard abominations outside Captain Cavendish’s office, although that wasn’t exactly a high bar to clear. Anyway, it didn’t matter. Ms Grant shouldn’t be too long, and then I’d hopefully be able to sit down for a while. Not that I needed to.)  
  
I wondered if the matter she was dealing with was connected with me at all. If it was anything I needed to worry about. Although, if she was responsible for the Wards as a whole, she undoubtedly had other things to do with her time. I just hoped I hadn’t kept her from too many of her other duties today.  
  
While I waited for Ms Grant to return, I amused myself by studying the many items decorating the somewhat cramped office. Every available surface — well, every available surface that wasn’t covered with papers and post-it notes (so many post-it notes!) — was positively crammed full of stuff. Posters, pictures, postcards, ornaments, trinkets, weird little sculptures, miscellaneous tchotchkes, more logo-ed and novelty mugs than any one person could reasonably need in a lifetime, and not one but two dreamcatchers. On the one hand, I kind of disapproved of the clutter. (I couldn’t help comparing it a little unfavourably to Captain Cavendish’s office, which had been much neater and far less crammed full of non-work-related things. Larger, too, though, I supposed, which probably made a difference.) On the other hand, though, I kind of liked it. And at least the clutter gave me something interesting to look at.  
  
There was a wilted little bunch of carnations sitting in a coffee mug emblazoned with the words: ’Caffeine is better than sleep.’ I wondered if someone had given the flowers to her, or if she’d brought them in herself to brighten the place up. Not that it really needed much in the way of brightening. There was another mug with a picture of an improbably cheerful cartoon sunflower with the word ’Smile!’ written underneath. That one held paperclips, treasury tags and rubber bands. (I had a brief desire to separate the three types of items into different containers — seriously, it wasn’t like she was suffering from a shortage of mugs — but I pushed it away.)  
  
The dreamcatchers were pretty, all in shades of blue and green that made me think of water. That impression was only strengthened by the way the bits of polished glass strung on their threads glittered when they caught the light. One dreamcatcher was suspended from the ceiling above her desk, while the other hung in the window. When I looked around, though, I spotted a third one, dangling over the door. Did her work here really give her that many nightmares? Or were they purely for decoration?  
  
The poster of the kitten dangling from a branch with the caption ‘Hang in there, baby,’ made me grin a little for some reason. One of my teachers had had that exact same poster in her classroom a few years ago. Mrs Atkins had been her name. She’d been nice, even if she hadn’t been able to control a classroom to save her life.  
  
I’d found her almost in tears once, after someone had vandalised an art display she’d set up. She’d spent a long time on that display, encouraging various of her students — myself included — to contribute a piece of artwork or writing. The theme of the display had been heroes: not just capes, but also ordinary people who did extraordinary things; people we found inspiring.  
  
I’d worked on my part in secret, at school, and made damn sure it didn’t feature my name or anything that might have identified it as being mine. I’d always been interested in Brockton Bay — I had been born there, after all, even if I had no memories of the place — and so I’d researched its cape scene, a little. Naturally, it was easier to find information on the heroes. Miss Militia in particular had struck a chord with me; so I’d made a picture of her my contribution. Not because she was a member of the Protectorate, though. But because…   
  
Because…  
  
She’d lost family and friends, had been used as a human minesweeper, and yet she hadn’t given up. She’d not only survived, she’d saved her friends in the process. And even though she’d had to kill to do so — oh, the interviews and articles I’d read tried to elide that particular part of it, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines — she hadn’t let the experience break her. Nor had she — at least, as far as I could tell — allowed it to define her, or turn her into something she didn’t want to be. She’d chosen her own path and she was all the stronger for it. I admired that. I respected it. I couldn’t… I lacked the words to properly articulate how that made me feel — hence why I’d contributed a picture rather than a piece of writing — but I thought that maybe it gave me… hope?  
  
Anyway, it didn’t matter.  
  
(I had a sudden disquieting thought: now that I was a Ward, chances were that I was going to actually meet Miss Militia sooner or later. Which, honestly, was absolutely fucking surreal. I just hoped I didn’t embarrass myself too much when I did.)  
  
I hadn’t had the first clue what to do as Mrs Atkins stood there, sniffling unhappily and looking at the display with damp eyes, so I’d just started cleaning up the mess as best as I could. Not that my efforts really made much difference in the end, I thought, but she seemed to appreciate that at least I’d tried. **I** sure as shit hadn’t been satisfied with that, though. I’d been… I’d actually been absolutely fucking **furious**. All that **work** ; all that **effort** , and they’d just…  
  
I was pretty sure that Mrs Atkins had spent her own goddamned money on art supplies and the like. I knew for a fact that she’d given up a lot of her free time so that some of us could stay after school to work on our contributions. She’d even brought snacks and drinks — healthy ones, as well as junk, which I definitely appreciated. The end result of our combined efforts had been something beautiful. I mean, okay, maybe we were just kids, and maybe none of us were exactly master painters or anything, so maybe it was a little rough around the edges. But it had been beautiful to me. And those **fuckers** had ruined it. I’d wanted to make them pay so very badly. So I tracked them down — not exactly hard given that they were openly laughing about what they’d done — and kicked the shit out them.  
  
Of course, then I got in trouble with the teachers for fighting. Ha. ‘Fighting.’ Like those soft bastards actually had a chance. Trouble was, those soft bastards were also pretty fucking well-to-do, while I… wasn’t. Their parents were connected; seats on the PTA and everything. So when, in a fit of frustration at the whole damn system, I broke my rule about snitching and tried to tell the principal exactly **why** I’d gone for them, no one believed me. Why would they? There was no fucking evidence, so it was just my word against theirs. And on their side they had a fuckload of their lickspittles and hangers on who swore up and down that I’d just ‘lost it’ and ‘gone psycho.’ Please. If I’d really lost it, those assholes sure as shit wouldn’t have gotten away with just a few little bruises.  
  
The principal called Dad; insisted that he come in and meet with him in person right then and there. Even now, years later, I still remembered the way my stomach had twisted when the principal had said he was going to have to call my parents. As if that wasn’t bad enough, they actually made me apologise to those little pissants. I would have refused on general principles — did, at first, in fact — but Dad ordered me to do it anyway.  
  
Fuck, that had been humiliating. The worst part was knowing that, not only had they more or less gotten away with what they did to Mrs Atkins — their bruises would heal soon enough, after all — but, from that point forwards, they’d never be brought to task for anything they did to me in retaliation. They knew it, and I knew it. I could see it right there on their stupid smug fucking faces. I’d taken my shot, and I’d fucked it up. I should have been smarter. I should have had a plan, rather than just charging in half-cocked. I **shouldn’t** have just let my temper drive me to attack them right then and there. Not that I was sorry about smacking them around — despite what that asshole of a principal forced me to say — but, **fuck** , I wished I’d been smarter about **how** I’d gone after them.  
  
No amount of wishing could have saved me at that point, though.  
  
Dad hadn’t said a word during the drive home, but then, he hadn’t had to. It was pretty fucking obvious that he was completely and utterly livid. By this point, the last remnants of my righteous indignation had faded away completely, replaced by blind terror at the thought of what was waiting for me at the other end. I’d fucked up **and** I’d drawn attention. As far as Dad was concerned, both of those were unforgivable sins. And, as I’d been suspended for the rest of the week, he hadn’t had to worry about leaving me in a fit state to attend school the next day.  
  
I’d like to say that the anticipation was worse than the actual punishment had been but, well, it wasn’t.  
  
Not by a long fucking shot.  
  
But I really didn’t want to think about that right now, so I pushed the memories away and focused on Ms Grant’s office decorations instead.  
  
Pride of place on the wall to the left of her desk went to a framed collage in which lots of pictures of children surrounded a photo of a group of adults standing in what looked like an office. The adults were holding up a brightly coloured, if crudely constructed, sign that said: ‘We’ll miss you, Beth!’ Ms Grant’s previous place of work, I assumed. There was a caption beneath the photos that I couldn’t quite read from where I was standing. I dithered for a moment, but curiosity was a powerful force. I stepped around the desk to take a closer look, trying to ignore the way the skin between my shoulder blades itched as if I was being watched.  
  
‘Good luck with your new job,’ the caption read. ‘We’re sorry to see you go, but sure that you’ll do as excellent a job for the Youth Guard as you did for BB CPS. Whatever the future brings, know that you’ve changed so many children’s lives for the better. We know that you’ll continue to do so in your new role. All the best!’  
  
There were a bunch of scrawled signatures underneath it.  
  
Huh. That was interesting. She’d moved from Child Protective Services to the Youth Guard? How the hell did **that** happen? But I guessed that explained why she’d ended up half-coaching Mr Reid through the procedures at various points during the meeting earlier. Actually, a little more than half-coaching. She’d practically taken over for a while before he seemed to recover his equanimity and very pointedly reasserted control of the proceedings.  
  
(I’d felt more than a little tense at the clear… not animosity, not precisely, but definitely a sense of… opposition… between them. Which I guessed fit with what Ms Grant had said earlier, but made for more than a few anxious moments as I worried that one or both of them might try to ask me to take sides. I could see no way in which that would have ended well for me. But, fortunately, it didn’t happen.)  
  
I heard footsteps in the corridor outside and quickly (well, as quickly as I could) darted back around to the other side of the desk, coming to attention, but the footsteps continued on past the door and faded from my hearing. I hadn’t **really** thought they’d been quick or loud enough to belong to Ms Grant, but better safe than sorry. I doubted she’d be pleased to find me blatantly snooping around her office. Which I knew I shouldn’t be doing, not at all, but I was curious. Anyway, it wasn’t like I was going through the desk drawers, or poking at her computer. I was just looking at the things she had on display. That wasn’t too bad, was it?  
  
Once the footsteps had faded from my hearing, I relaxed back into a rest position and resumed my investigation.  
  
The centre position on the right-hand wall was also occupied by a framed set of photos, but this was one was much smaller. Much less cluttered, too; almost stark in its simplicity. A series of five black and white photos were lined up on a crisp white background, with neat printed captions beneath each one. A closer look revealed the photos to be of capes. Youngish ones, too; most likely Wards. The captions consisted of their names — two of them, I was surprised to note, had civilian names as well as cape names — a set of dates, and…  
  
Oh.  
  
Now I understood why the photos were in black and white. And why a couple of them looked familiar. Dead capes were **always** news, after all, and dead Wards even more so. Unless I was misremembering, though, I didn’t think any of them had been from Brockton Bay. So why would Ms Grant have their pictures on her office wall? Had she known them somehow?  
  
So far, my study of her office seemed to have raised more questions than it answered. Although the fact that she’d worked for CPS did, perhaps, explain some of the pictures and ornaments that had clearly been drawn or made by children. Kids she’d helped? With that thought in mind, I looked at them with a fresh eye. There certainly were a lot of them. Just how long had she been with the CPS anyway? How many children had she worked with over the years? And why would she leave that behind to join the Youth Guard, of all things?  
  
Curiouser and curiouser.  
  
I continued to look around, sufficiently emboldened now to actually touch a couple of the more interesting knick knacks, cautiously studying them with my power as well as my eyes. I was particularly fascinated by a small glass bonsai tree that stood on the windowsill next to the wilted carnations. Glass felt amazing to my power; almost as good as metal did. It was a real struggle not to let myself just do something other than just look. But I did still have some of the glass I’d made during my final exam. (How **awesome** was that? I could turn sand into glass by forging chemical bonds! That was amazing, wasn’t it? I wondered what else I could make if I had the right materials…) I hadn’t been able to bring myself to leave it behind, so I’d carefully rolled it up in some of my socks and shoved it in my bag. I made a mental note to set aside some time for playing with it. By which, of course, I meant conducting some experiments.  
  
In the meantime, I probably had a little while yet before Ms Grant returned. Maybe instead of spending it poking around her office, I should do something productive, like practice my fine control with my metal. That would also hopefully have the side benefit of reducing the temptation to turn my power on any of Ms Grant’s things. Or on the building itself.  
  
(I hadn’t even bothered repairing my split shoes before coming up here. And I was starting to wonder if I should just give up and go barefoot when I was in the Wards HQ itself. I couldn’t deny that I **liked** being able to feel the building around me at all time. And, anyway, it would help me to become more familiar with the inner workings of its structure. It wasn’t **just** about comfort. It wasn’t.)  
  
(I didn’t know what I was going to do when I had to step outside. Brockton Bay — at least the parts of it that I was used to — was hardly the kind of place where you’d want to wander around barefoot. But then, thinking about going outside reminded me of the fact that Dad would be looking for me, and that made me feel queasy, so I pushed those thoughts aside.)  
  
I moved back around to the right side of the desk and pushed up my sleeves. (I’d settled on a long-sleeved shirt for this meeting, rather than one of my more usual T-shirts. All the better to cover up any unsightly marks.) Metal seemed to surge almost eagerly at my slightest thought, seemingly ready and willing to do my bidding. (I really needed to stop anthropomorphising my metal. Or my power, for that matter. My power was a part of me, not a thing unto itself. **I** was in control, even if I did sometimes exercise that control subconsciously.) So… what should I do with it?  
  
I thought for a moment, putting together a mental image of what I wanted. I held that in my mind for a moment, and then I started shifting bonds around. This was different to making my wires. They were simple. This… This wasn’t. The crude human-shaped figure wasn’t too hard, but refining it, adjusting the proportions, adding the details… That actually took concentration. Somewhere at the back of my mind was a nagging little voice that said I should be trying to make something useful. Something I could use to defend myself, or as a weapon. (‘I didn’t give you permission to take a break, girl. Now get back to work. And if you whine about unfairness one more time, then by God I’ll give you something to whine about.’) I ignored it.  
  
Anyway, weapons were easy. **This** was hard. Which meant it would probably help improve my skills much more in the long run.  
  
That was what I told myself, anyway.  
  
I wasn’t close to done when I heard the familiar clack-clacking of Ms Grant’s heels in the corridor, but I’d made a fairly respectable start. It was still fairly stylised, it was true, but I fancied that, if you squinted, it bore a definite resemblance to Miss Militia. (What could I say? Thinking back to Mrs Atkins and her art display had made me oddly… nostalgic. Or something.) I had a moment’s regret before dissolving the incomplete sculpture and reforming my metal into bracers around my forearms, but I consoled myself that I’d be able to try again some other time. It wasn’t as though it had taken that long, and maybe next time I could actually plan it out properly. I tugged my sleeves back down to my wrists, coming to attention as Ms Grant opened the office door. I heard her pause on the threshold and glanced around, a little surprised to see her looking at me with a slight frown.  
  
(Had I done something wrong? Was it obvious that I’d been snooping around her office? Had I moved something out of place? Or had she just forgotten I was here? That last one didn’t seem likely, but I just wasn’t sure what the problem was.)  
  
“Have you been standing there all this time?” she asked.  
  
(Maybe I had moved something out of place. Maybe she was going to ask me if I’d been touching her things.)  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant,” I said, cautiously, mentally crossing my fingers. It really was more or less true, anyway. I had been standing, and I’d been more or less in the vicinity of this spot. Give or take. Near enough.  
  
She stepped into the office and closed the door, still frowning.  
  
“Why didn’t you sit down?”  
  
I blinked at her. Was that a trick question? Was it a test? (A vague, inchoate feeling of distress started to press in on the edges of my mind as I wondered if I would ever figure out this place and these people.) But she was waiting for my reply, so I had to say something. When no better options immediately presented themselves, I went with the truth.  
  
“You didn’t say I could,” I said softly.  
  
Much to my surprise, Ms Grant closed her eyes for a moment and sighed heavily. Then she opened her eyes again, and moved past me to sit in her own chair.  
  
“Please, sit,” she said, and her voice was gentler than I would have expected. It certainly didn’t **sound** like she was annoyed with me, and I had a pretty good idea of what her ‘annoyed’ looked and sounded like from witnessing her interactions with Mr Reid.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, truly meaning that — no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I had been starting to feel just a little bit uncomfortable being on my feet — and sat down. I picked the same chair I’d sat in earlier — at least I knew that one was comfortable. The other one looked as though it should be, but better safe than sorry.  
  
Ms Grant looked at me. “I apologise, Astrid,” she said, much to my surprise. “I should have told you to take a seat before I left, but I’m afraid I was distracted and it quite slipped my mind. That isn’t an excuse, though, and I will try to be more thoughtful in future.”  
  
“That’s alright, Ms Grant,” I said awkwardly. First Aegis, and now Ms Grant. What was next? Would the director herself track me down and apologise for some imagined fault or error? This was a pretty novel experience for me. I really wasn’t used to authority figures telling me they were sorry for, well, anything at all. I wasn’t entirely sure how I was supposed to respond. “You really don’t have to apologise,” I tried. “It wasn’t a big deal.”  
  
“That isn’t really the point,” she said, and it sounded like a rebuke, albeit a mild one. “I never intended for you to think you weren’t allowed to sit down, and I certainly never intended to leave you standing here for over quarter of an hour. Especially when I was the one who’d asked you to get here for five in the first place. So, for that, I’m sorry. Do you understand?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
I guessed I did understand about regretting unintended consequences, even if I really didn’t think it was that big a deal. It had only been about twenty minutes or so in the end. I’d stood for longer than that before. Hell, I’d stood to attention for longer than that before, and when I’d been in worse shape. This really wasn’t anything worth worrying about. But… I probably shouldn’t say any of that out loud, should I?  
  
“Good,” she said, although she did give me a searching look that left me wanting to shift restlessly under her gaze. I managed to resist. “And, for the future, I want you to know that you always have permission to sit while in my office. Even if I don’t specifically say so at the time. Alright?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant.” That was… unexpected, but not unwelcome. At least I didn’t have to worry about it from now on. Unless, of course, she subsequently changed her mind, but I hoped she would simply tell me if that was the case.  
  
“Also.” She gave me a wry smile. “You are more than welcome to take a look at any of my little trinkets. You can even pick them up if you want, although I’d ask that you be careful not to break anything.”  
  
“Of course,” I assured her, trying not to feel guilty about the fact that I’d already been poking around. “And thank you.”  
  
“That’s alright,” she said, seeming amused. “I deal with teenagers. I know better than to put things on display if I don’t want people getting curious about them.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. This was going nothing at all like I might have expected. Perhaps I should just let Ms Grant do the talking as much as possible, at least until I’d managed to figure out enough about her to know what would make her angry. “Anyway,” she said, after a moment. “I’m going to make myself a cup of tea. Would you like one? Or I have coffee, if you prefer that. I should also have some chocolate digestives around here somewhere. I really hope so, anyway. God knows I could use the sugar right now. It’s been one of those days.”  
  
I really hoped that wasn’t because of me, but I didn’t know how to ask. (I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.) Instead, I focused on more pleasant thoughts.  
  
“I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” I said, a little hesitantly. “If that’s alright.”  
  
“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered,” she said dryly, getting to her feet. She shook the kettle that sat on top of one of the filing cabinets in the corner and, apparently satisfied with the water level, flipped the switch to turn it on. “And that’s another thing,” she called over her shoulder as she grabbed a couple of mugs, a box of tea bags and a jar of coffee from a shelf. “While I think about it: you’re more than welcome to help yourself to any refreshments I have lying around in here, although I strongly suggest you always check the use by date on the milk. Sometimes I leave it in here a little bit longer than I really should.” I hadn’t even noticed the mini fridge tucked in the corner. It seemed to be doing double duty as a storage surface, judging by the precarious-looking stack of papers piled on top of it. “Just let me know if you use the last of anything, so I can get more.”  
  
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”  
  
“Milk? Sugar?” she asked.  
  
“Neither, thank you. I usually drink it black.”  
  
“Rather you than me,” she murmured, pulling a face. “But each to their own.”  
  
She was quiet for a few moments as she put a tea bag in one mug, and a spoonful of coffee in the other. She got the mug that said: ‘I’m no good at advice. Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?’ Mine said: ‘Keep calm, and remember that I know where the bodies are buried.’ I raised my eyebrows a little at that one.  
  
“Those are… interesting mugs,” I observed.  
  
She grinned at me. “People keep giving them to me as presents. I’m still not entirely sure what they were trying to tell me with this.” She gestured to the ‘Keep calm’ one. “And I didn’t like to ask. I’m afraid I got the other one myself, though. I’ll let you decide for yourself whether or not I got it ironically. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to share your conclusions with me.”  
  
That was a relief. She might be considerably less strict about modes of address than Dad — and, apparently, a fuck of a lot more relaxed about certain other things — but that didn’t mean I’d feel comfortable saying something outright disrespectful to her.  
  
“Aha!” she said suddenly, a note of triumph in her voice. “I **knew** I had another packet of these lying around somewhere.” She set a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits down in the middle of the desk, where we could both reach it. “Feel free to help yourself. Just make sure you leave some for me.”  
  
“I’m fine with just the coffee, thank you,” I said.  
  
“More for me, then,” she replied, shrugging.  
  
Silence fell for a minute or so as the kettle boiled, and Ms Grant made the drinks. I wondered belatedly if I should have offered to help, but I supposed there wasn’t really room around the other side of the desk for both of us. She took a lot of sugar in her tea, I couldn’t help noticing. I counted three heaped spoonfuls, trying not to look disapproving. Although she was tiny, so maybe she didn’t indulge like that too often. Or she burned it all off by speeding around all over the place.  
  
Well, it wasn’t really my place to judge her, so I tried to put those thoughts aside.  
  
“Thank you,” I said as I accepted my drink from her. I took a drink as she sat down again, noting that it was a little too hot to drink comfortably right now. I glanced down at the desk, but couldn’t see anywhere obvious to set it down. “Do you have a coaster?” I asked.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said, setting her own mug down on the bare wood of the desk. “This old thing has already been through the wars. A few more marks here and there aren’t going to do it any harm.”  
  
Even the thought of doing that made me want to twitch, but I tried to keep the wince from my face as I followed Ms Grant’s example. It was her desk, I told myself. If she was happy about it, then who was I to argue? And it certainly did look like it had seen better days, sporting a number of dents and scars and nicks.  
  
Was that… Was that a scorch mark? Was she being literal when she talked about it having been through the wars?  
  
Regardless of its condition, though, not using a coaster still felt wrong.  
  
“Right,” Ms Grant said, leaning back in her chair and studying me thoughtfully. “Why do you have more injuries now than you did when we parted ways earlier? To my knowledge, there is no tradition of welcoming new members of the Wards by punching them repeatedly in the face.”  
  
“It’s not as bad as-“ I began, only to break off when she held up a finger.  
  
“That isn’t what I asked.” Her voice was firm, but not angry. At least, I didn’t **think** she sounded angry. It was really fucking hard to be sure, though. “I didn’t ask how bad it was, I asked what had happened.”  
  
“It isn’t anything-“  
  
“To worry about?” she interrupted. “Important? Worth bothering me with?” I’d been going to say ‘Important.’ But I wasn’t sure what to say right now, so I just stayed quiet. Ms Grant looked at me for a moment or two. To my surprise, though, rather than turning into a frown of anger, her expression softened. “I’d rather decide that for myself, Astrid. But I have to tell you that I am quite worried right now. I know you’ve heard my opinions on what happens to Wards out in the field, as they call it, but here in the PRT building, at least, you’re supposed to be safe. That…” She nodded at my face. “Does not look like safe to me.”  
  
I opened my mouth to say that it was fine, really, but something made me hesitate.  
  
“Better,” she said dryly. “At least you’re starting to realise that trying to fob me off with platitudes is just a waste of breath. Perhaps now you can move on to actually answering my question.”  
  
Alarmed all of a sudden, I searched her face and posture for signs that she might be on the verge of losing her patience with me. (Signs that she might be about to discipline me for disobedience. Or, rather, have me disciplined. Because she didn’t really strike me as the kind of person who would do that herself.)  
  
“I’m not trying to be disobedient, Ms Grant,” I hastened to assure her. “I just don’t want to make a fuss. And I certainly don’t want to get anyone in trouble.” Not least of all myself. “But it really isn’t anything to worry about, and it isn’t going to happen again.”  
  
My heart was in my mouth as Ms Grant took a slow sip of her tea, looking at me in a way I couldn’t decipher.  
  
“You’re not in any trouble, Astrid,” she said, eventually. “It’s alright if you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m afraid I do need to know what happened. If you won’t tell me, that means I’ll have to find out for myself. I would prefer it if you told me, but I’ll understand if you can’t, or won’t. I’m not going to be angry with you either way. I’m certainly not going to punish you for it. My only agenda here is to look after your welfare, which includes — as far as I can, anyway — making sure that you don’t get hurt. Punishing you for not telling me **how** you got hurt would be entirely counterproductive.”  
  
Was I really that obvious?  
  
I dithered for a moment, not sure what to do, turning her words over in my mind. I didn’t want to tell her about the sparring match, but if she was going to look into it anyway… At least if I talked to her now, I had some chance of controlling the information flow. As long as I didn’t fuck this up any more than I seemed to be doing so far.  
  
Honestly, I wasn’t getting my hopes up.  
  
“They’re minor sparring injuries, that’s all,” I said. “I challenged one of my team mates to a friendly sparring match after the briefing. Things escalated perhaps a little more than either of us was intending — and I think there was some misunderstanding about exactly what my powers include — but those issues have now been addressed. I don’t believe it will happen again.” Certainly not if Aegis had anything to say about it, but I guessed Shadow Stalker and I didn’t necessarily have to let him know when we next planned on sparring.  
  
Anyway, next time we’d be sparring without powers, so hopefully that would go somewhat better for me.  
  
“A sparring match,” Ms Grant repeated, her tone neutral. “Not a fight?”  
  
“No, Ma’am, um, I mean, no, Ms Grant. We were just sparring.” In theory, anyway. In practice… Eh, to-may-to, to-mah-to.  
  
“And does Aegis know about this friendly sparring match?”  
  
“Yes. That is, he allowed it to proceed, but he seemed both surprised and displeased by how it turned out in the end. He spoke with both myself and my team mate to that effect afterwards.” I hesitated a moment and then added: “And the two of us had a chat after that to clear some things up. That seemed to go quite well, and I believe we’re now all on the same page about sparring in the future.” Ms Grant continued to look at me, taking another quick sip of her tea. Her regard was starting to make me feel really fucking nervous. When she finally did speak, it almost made me jump.  
  
“Do you think injuries like yours are reasonable during a friendly sparring match between team mates?”  
  
Well. That was a question and a half, wasn’t it?  
  
“I did,” I said carefully. “But Aegis has impressed on me that it is neither expected nor acceptable for Wards to cause bruises while sparring.”  
  
Even though that would make sparring pretty fucking pointless. At that point, you might as well just be dancing.  
  
“You don’t agree?” Ms Grant’s tone was still neutral, neither approving nor disapproving. The question felt like a trap nonetheless.  
  
“I wasn’t aware of the Wards’ regulations on sparring beforehand,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “Now that I know, I’ll be able to make sure I abide by them in the future.”  
  
“Not the question I asked,” Ms Grant said, and now there was a trace of amusement in her voice. “But that was a fairly nice evasion. I give it maybe a seven out of ten.”  
  
I glared at her before I could think to stop myself, irritated by her condescension. And then my brain caught up with my body, and I immediately dropped my gaze, horrified by my open display of temper. Shit. I picked up my mug in an attempt to cover my discombobulation, cradling it in my hands. Had she noticed my glare? God, I hoped not. My hopes were dashed, however, when Ms Grant said:  
  
“It’s alright to get angry with me, Astrid. I’m a grown woman, and I’m in a fairly contentious line of work. I’m used to riling people up. As long as you keep it to glares and words, rather than actions, you can get as peeved as you like.”  
  
My eyes flew wide open, horror of a different sort filling me now.  
  
“I wouldn’t,” I began, and then stopped, feeling stuck for words. “I’d never… I, um, I would only…”  
  
“It’s alright,” she said, clearly taking pity on me. “I know what you’re trying to say.”  
  
“Thank you, Ms Grant,” I muttered, trying not to hunch into my seat. “And I’m sorry.”  
  
“You don’t need to thank me, and you certainly don’t need to apologise. Like I said: you’re allowed to be angry with me. Feeling emotions is not something you should ever be punished for. Nor, within reason, is expressing them.”  
  
Wow. She and Dad really had very different ideas of what constituted disciplinary offences.  
  
“I was taught that I should be respectful of those in authority,” I found myself saying, without really meaning to. I took a sip of coffee to cover up my unease.  
  
“I’ve always been of the opinion that respect is something that needs to be earned. And that if those in authority can’t tolerate a little disrespect, then maybe they should learn to grow a thicker skin and be a little less up their own rear ends,” she murmured. I tried not to choke on my coffee. She smiled at me, but the expression looked a little sad. “Did I shock you?”  
  
“That’s just… not a philosophy I’ve really encountered before,” I said carefully.  
  
“Well, I’m afraid you’d better get used to it, because it’s one you’ll probably hear me spouting over and over again. Especially if I’ve had a recent meeting with certain **charming** individuals who work for the PRT.” Without so much as changing tone — or even drawing breath, as far as I could tell — she asked: “Who do you usually spar with?”  
  
“My dad and my brother,” I answered automatically, and then froze. Dammit! I **wasn’t** going to mention that. “Dad’s ex-military,” I hurried to add, repetition making the phrase come easier. “He wanted to make sure Lance and I knew how to fight. Um, that is, how to defend ourselves.” Shit. I was usually better than this. She’d really rattled me.  
  
“And this sparring generally involved bruises?”  
  
“Sometimes,” I said, cautiously. “But it wasn’t anything serious.”  
  
“Do you mean that in the same way you told Reid the injuries to your back aren’t that bad? In the same way that you told me that you don’t have any ‘serious damage’ when I said I was going to take you to the infirmary?”  
  
Goddammit! What the fuck did she want me to say? It would be so much easier if she just came right out and said it.  
  
“I’m not certain I understand what you mean, Ms Grant,” I said, not caring that my words sounded a little stiff and stilted. She’d said she didn’t mind me getting angry with her; let’s see how serious she was about that. I kept my eyes on hers as I waited to see how she would respond.  
  
“Alright,” she said quietly, her tone neutral once more. “We’ll leave the subject of acceptable sparring injuries for the time being.” I had a moment to feel relieved before she continued with: “Although we may revisit it at a later point.” Well, fuck. “In the meantime.” She sat up a little straighter in her chair, her whole demeanour businesslike. “I have some news about the emergency removal order.”  
  
My heart was in my mouth again.  
  
“Is there a problem, Ms Grant?”  
  
Would they have to send me back to him after all? I mean, they’d said that wouldn’t happen; both Ms Grant and Mr Reid had said it. And I was a Ward now. They couldn’t take that back, could they?  
  
(Please don’t let them give me back to Dad.)  
  
( **Please**.)  
  
“No, not at all,” she said swiftly. “I apologise if I worried you. I just wanted to let you know that the papers were served to your father this afternoon by a couple of uniformed police officers.”  
  
They’d sent the cops round? To our house? God, he must be fucking **livid**.  
  
“Is that…?” My voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. “Is that usual? To have police officers serve the papers?”  
  
“Here in Brockton Bay, it is, yes. It’s not uncommon for parents in these situations to get aggressive or even violent, when being informed that their child is being taken from their custody. The uniforms… tend to discourage that.”  
  
“I see,” I said. My voice sounded weird in my ears: faint and thready. Shit. This was really happening. Now Dad knew I wasn’t going to come back of my own accord. He knew I meant business. He knew that I’d blown his and Lance’s civilian identities to the authorities. Although, he also knew that I hadn’t outed him as a cape. Surely that had to be worth something? Somehow, though, I didn’t think that would make him go any easier on me. But that didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going back home. I *wasn’t*. “Do you know…?” Fuck, why did I sound so goddamned timid? “Did it go well? Did Dad say anything?”  
  
Did he hurt anyone? God, I hadn’t even thought about that. He did have a temper, after all. But he was usually good about keeping it in check when dealing with outsiders. To my knowledge, he’d never once blown our cover by lashing out in anger at someone he shouldn’t. But then, I’d never gotten myself officially removed from his custody before. I’d never deliberately involved the system in our family business.  
  
“Nothing that was passed onto me. And I understand that the papers were served without incident. In fact, by all accounts your father didn’t say much at all, and the little he did say was actually quite civil.” She gave me a thin smile. “Unofficially, I gather that the officers in question were a little surprised about that. They’ve… had some unpleasant experiences in the past in that regard.” I was a little surprised that she knew that, but I guess if she’d worked for CPS for a while, she probably knew some people in law enforcement.  
  
“Would you mind telling me what happens now? I mean, I know we went over it in the meeting with Mr Reid, but I want to make sure I have it straight in my mind.”  
  
I had a moment’s trepidation wondering if she would be annoyed at me for not paying sufficient attention, for asking her to repeat herself, but she gave me a sympathetic smile.  
  
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant,” I said softly.  
  
“Right,” she said, her demeanour brisk and businesslike again. I took a sip of coffee to try to ease the lump in my throat. And just for something to do. “Now that your father’s been served, the next stage is for a CPS worker to carry out a home visit. They’ll need to interview your father and, preferably, your brother.”  
  
“Lance as well?” I interrupted, stupidly, sounding a little plaintive. I remembered Mr Reid saying they’d want to talk to Dad, but it hadn’t occurred to me that they’d want to talk to him as well. Did they… Would they try to take him away from Dad too? Would he even go? I didn’t think so. I wasn’t sure I would have, if I hadn’t been desperate. If I hadn’t had somewhere else to go. But Lance wasn’t a cape. Joining the Wards wasn’t an option for him, even supposing he would. He wouldn’t have anyone who could protect him from Dad.  
  
(I didn’t think he’d accept **my** protection, even if I was in a position to offer it. If I’d been able to stand up to Dad in any meaningful way, I wouldn’t have needed to run like a coward.)  
  
“Yes. When there’s clear evidence that one child is being abused, it would be criminally irresponsible for us not to check on the other one.” Her tone was dry, but not unsympathetic. I noted that she’d said ‘us’ and not ‘them’ when talking about the CPS, but mostly I just felt kind of… pissed off. (And a little bit like things were spiralling out of my control. But then, when had things ever been under my control?)  
  
“It wasn’t-“ I started to say, then made myself break off. I wasn’t some abused child! I wasn’t a fucking victim! Dad always had a reason for the things he did to me, for the trials he put me through. He was making me stronger, or else he was disciplining me for my fuck ups. He didn’t hurt me just because he felt like it. He wasn’t a fucking **sadist**. But I couldn’t really say, that, could I? I couldn’t say any of it. I needed to keep my mouth shut and let them continue to think that I’d run away from home because I couldn’t take a little bit of pain. So I swallowed back my anger as best as I could and, rather than snarling that Ms Grant didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about, simply said: “I see.”  
  
She frowned a little but much to my relief, didn’t ask me what I’d been about to say instead.  
  
“The home visit should happen within the next day or two, but that does depend on how cooperative your father is. Reid will liaise with the CPS worker assigned your case, and depending on how things go, he may need to interview you again. Hopefully that shouldn’t be necessary, but if it is I’ll accompany you.” Given how much friction there had been between the pair of them last time, that news left me feeling somewhat conflicted. “Now, as I said before, the emergency removal order is only temporary until confirmed by the court.” I tried to ignore the way my heart thudded in my chest; tried to tell myself I wasn’t worried. (Tried to tell myself they wouldn’t, they couldn’t send me back home.) “That means there’ll be a hearing not later than seven days from today to determine whether to confirm it.”  
  
“Is… Is there much chance that they won’t?” I hated myself for stuttering; for sounding so small and scared. The fact that I **was** scared was neither here nor there, I should be stronger than this. I should be **better**. Why couldn’t I get myself under control? I must be fucking this up so badly.  
  
“I very much doubt it,” Ms Grant said decisively. “Your injuries are clear and damning evidence of an abusive home environment, which is all the court needs.” There was that fucking word again. It was all I could do not to clench my hands into fists. “Anyway, the PRT are involved. They won’t let that happen. For all their faults — and believe me, they have a great many of those — they are very good at getting the system to do what they want.” She gave me a wry, somewhat bitter smile. “And although I have a few issues with Reid and the PRT in general, the one thing I cannot criticise them for is their tenacity. You can absolutely trust that their lawyers will fight for you to remain out of your father’s custody.” Her smile fell away and, so quietly I half-wondered if I was even supposed to hear it, she added: “Even if they won’t look out for your interests in certain other respects.”  
  
I blinked.  
  
“I’m… not sure I understand,” I said cautiously. And, since we were on the subject… “And I’m still not entirely certain I understand what Mr Reid’s role is within the PRT.” Because if that man hadn’t been an active field agent at one point — and likely fairly recently — I would eat my nonexistent hat. But how did a field agent end up being a CPS liaison?  
  
Ms Grant sighed.  
  
“I’m definitely going to need chocolate for this one,” she muttered, suiting the action to her words and snagging a couple of digestives from the packet. I tried not to shudder as she dunked one of them in her tea. Like it wasn’t sweet enough already with all that sugar. I took a sip of my reassuringly bitter coffee.  
  
“Alright,” she continued, after devouring the sweet biscuits. “Let’s see if I can explain this in a way that makes sense. I’m not sure how much you know about the inner workings of the various parahuman-related organisations, so please feel free to stop me if I’m telling you things you already know. Oh, and you’re welcome to ask questions if anything’s unclear. Okay?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant,” I said.  
  
“Right. The purpose of the PRT is to essentially work within existing legal and bureaucratic frameworks to deal with parahumans and parahuman-related matters. Not that you’d know that first part to talk to some of them, especially the ones who think they can ride roughshod over any part of the law they don’t like, but I digress. The Protectorate and the Wards are both overseen by the PRT. In many places, the Wards programme is essentially folded into the Protectorate, the leader of which — or someone they designate — has a direct supervisory and managerial role. That used to be the case in Brockton Bay, but a couple of years ago that changed. Now the BB PRT runs the Wards programme directly.”  
  
That was… interesting. And more than a little worrying. Because something like that smacked of politics, and inter-organisational politics did not make for neat chains of command. I really hoped I managed to figure out this particular potential minefield before I found myself hoist by someone else’s petard.  
  
“Because law and bureaucratic procedure is an awfully big subject, most local PRT groups either retain expert advisors, or have in-house specialists for particular areas. Most often, you’ll find a combination of both, but in general it’s up to each local PRT branch to ensure that they have access to a sufficient breadth and depth of knowledge and experience.”  
  
That seemed like an awfully lackadaisical way of going about it. I could only assume that it was a little more tightly regulated than Ms Grant made it seem. Although I guessed it did allow for a certain flexibility, so that individual PRT branches to adapt to the needs of their particular locales. I would imagine that somewhere like, say, Portland would have very different requirements to Brockton Bay. Not nearly so many fucking nazis to deal with, for a start.  
  
“One exception to that is the area of law relating to at-risk minors. Due to a few… let’s call them hiccups… with some of the early Wards groups, it was mandated that every Wards team must have an in-house specialist trained in the procedures and laws relevant to the protection of at-risk minors. That specialist is to act as the liaison to CPS where necessary. The idea is that a member of the PRT or Protectorate will have a better idea of the requirements of a young parahuman, enabling them to provide insight to CPS on how best to proceed. They’re not intended to replace CPS workers but, rather, to supplement them. With me so far?”  
  
“Yes, I think so.”  
  
It **sounded** straightforward enough, I guessed. But something told me that the truth of the situation was going to be much messier than it seemed.  
  
“Now, I can’t speak to how things work in other cities, but here in Brockton Bay? Frankly, it’s a joke.”  
  
The level of vitriol in her voice took me completely by surprise.  
  
“Excuse me?” I blurted, not entirely sure I wanted to hear the rest of this. I doubted it would do my peace of mind any good at all. But I was too curious not to ask.  
  
“It’s nothing more than a box-ticking exercise,” she went on, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “The law requires them to have a specialist. So they pick someone they can spare for long enough to take the mandated two-day course, plus the one week they’re supposed to spend shadowing an actual CPS worker. Maybe that person is a volunteer, maybe not. It doesn’t matter. The end result is that they get a slight pay bump, an extra, largely on-paper responsibility they can put on their resumé, and that’s pretty much it. There’s no follow up, no assessment, no real requirement even that that have to keep their knowledge — such as it is — current. So, like I said: a box-ticking exercise.”  
  
I blinked.  
  
“There’s no assessment at all?”  
  
She snorted. “Technically, the course-runner and CPS worker are supposed to sign off on attendance. Not competence, mind you, but attendance.” A grimace twisted her lips. “The law stipulates that the Brockton Bay PRT, as the organisation directly responsible for the local Wards team, has a named individual designated as their in-house CPS specialist. And, on paper, that’s what they have. Technically. In a doing-the-absolute-bare-minimum-to-ensure-compliance-with-the-law kind of way.”  
  
As I pondered that information, she reached out and snagged another chocolate digestive biscuit, dunking and devouring it faster than I would have thought possible.  
  
“Reid means well,” she said grudgingly, when there was nothing left of the biscuit but crumbs on the desk. (I couldn’t understand how she could just leave them sitting there without sweeping them up. I had to wrap my hands around my mug to stop myself reaching over and doing just that.) “His heart is in the right place, I’d say. But he’s… inexperienced. The last case like yours occurred several years ago.” Like mine? I doubted it. “The CPS specialist who handled that left suddenly a while back, and they had to find another one at short notice. Reid was a temporarily benched field agent looking to move from operations to investigative work.”  
  
I wondered why he’d been benched. Injury? Exposure to master or stranger effects? I doubted I’d ever find out.  
  
Ms Grant frowned.  
  
“I’m not sure whether Reid volunteered or was volunteered, but either way he ended up with the job. I understand that there was very little handover, so he’s basically been left with another man’s notes, minimal training and no real on-the-job experience.” She gave me a wry smile. “In case it wasn’t blindingly obvious, yours is the first case he’s dealt with.”  
  
“Oh,” I said. That didn’t exactly come as a surprise to me.  
  
“But, back to what I said before, about him not looking out for your interests in certain respects…” She paused a moment, not as if she was hesitating, but more as if she was collecting her thoughts. “Simply put, he’s a company man. He absolutely believes that the PRT way of doing things is the right way, that the best place for a young parahuman to be is in the Wards, and that the Wards programme is working exactly as intended. No ifs, buts or maybes.”  
  
“And… you don’t share that belief?” I asked, a little hesitantly.  
  
She sighed softly. “It’s not that I don’t want young parahumans to join the Wards,” she said. “Much though it might seem otherwise from what I’ve said. It’s more that I think the people in charge of the Brockton Bay Wards programme have lost sight of what it’s really meant to be about. No, I can’t say that I’m overly happy about teenagers being expected to fight criminals with superpowers. Or even ordinary mortals with guns.”  
  
I had to bite my tongue there. The last time I’d said I was willing to fight, she hadn’t reacted at all well. Best just to keep the thought to myself this time.  
  
An expression of frustration crossed her face.  
  
“I can’t even say ‘forced,’ not really, because odds are you’d be out there on your own doing exactly the same thing if you weren’t part of the Wards. Only without the backing of a team and an organisation. Which isn’t to say that the PRT doesn’t take advantage of your natural tendencies in that regard — regardless of Reid’s opinion on the subject — but…” Another soft sigh. “Institutional changes don’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t make it easier when there are pressures to push things back the other way. After all, the Wards budget gets a bump whenever they demonstrate success. And defeating bad guys is a more easily assessed metric for tracking that than quality of life for the Wards.  Or how well-adjusted they turn out,” she said cynically. “So all I can do is fight for the individuals in my charge. Which includes you, Astrid.” She grinned suddenly. “Whether you like it or not.”  
  
I honestly wasn’t sure how I felt about Ms Grant. On the one hand, I appreciated her general plainspokenness. On the other hand, I really didn’t like her condescension, and her insistence on painting me as some hapless, helpless victim. And, on the gripping hand, she seemed to be way more perceptive than I was really comfortable with, considering the secrets I was keeping.  
  
“Anyway, I’ve rambled on about this far too long. You must be bored senseless.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that, Ms Grant,” I said, a little uncertainly. Anyway, I wasn’t bored. Confused, perhaps, but not bored.  
  
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” She looked at me for a long moment, and I couldn’t even begin to understand what I saw in her eyes. “I know you probably don’t believe me, Astrid, but no one here is going to punish you the way your father did. No one is going to hurt you.”  
  
Dean had said the same thing. That didn’t mean it was true. (There was always a basement. **Always**.)  
  
“I… understand, Ms Grant,” I said quietly.  
  
I understood that she had to say that. Maybe she even believed it. But that didn’t mean I was going to.  
  
“But you don’t believe me. Just like you don’t really believe your father did anything wrong, do you?”  
  
This was a trap, wasn’t it? A trick of some kind. Fuck! What did she want? What the fuck gave this bitch the right to put me on the spot like this? I’d never asked for her to be my advocate. I’d never asked her for anything.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I said in a low, surprisingly even voice.  
  
Despite her words — it was always words with these people; confusing me, tying me up in knots — I was half-expecting her to hit me. Or, more likely, to pick up the phone and call someone in to discipline me for talking back to her. (Which, on some level, I would almost welcome. At least then I’d know how far I could push. And at least I’d know what to expect when I inevitably fucked up and committed a punishable offence.) But all she did was nod.  
  
“Alright,” she said quietly. “Then let’s go back to talking about the emergency removal procedure.” It was my turn to nod now. I didn’t quite trust my voice enough to speak. “Assuming that the removal order is upheld — and, as I said, I have no doubt it will be — two weeks from today, there will be another hearing, where your father will be given the chance to contest it.”  
  
That wouldn’t happen, I was reasonably sure. Honestly, I’d be surprised if Dad and Lance even stuck around long enough for the home visit. No, if they followed SOP, they’d blow this metaphorical popsicle stand and go underground.  
  
“What if he doesn’t?” I found myself asking, my words sounding like they were coming from a long way away. “Contest it, I mean.”  
  
“If he doesn’t contest it, or if he does and the judge finds against him, then the temporary order will likely become permanent, and the PRT will become your official guardians of record. It’s not unlike becoming a ward of the state — no pun intended — with the PRT simply standing in place of the state. There’s a little more to it than that, of course — and a lot more paperwork, believe me — but that’s basically the gist of it.”  
  
I frowned. If the PRT were going to become my guardians of record, did that mean…?  
  
“Is Dad going to know that I’m a Ward? A capital-W Ward, I mean.” Curse the whole repurposing of a pre-existing word to mean something different.  
  
“No, absolutely not,” Ms Grant said firmly. “As far as he’s concerned, CPS has removed you on its own recognisance, and he’ll be dealing with them, rather than the PRT. There are procedures in place for this kind of thing, even if they’re only rarely used.” She hesitated for a moment, and then continued. “Although, given that he knows you’re a parahuman, there’s a distinct possibility he might put two and two together, especially once you make your debut as a hero.”  
  
Would he make that leap? Would he figure out that I’d not only run away from home — away from him — but I’d gone and joined a rival gang? I didn’t think it would be his first thought, but surely he was bound to spot the similarity between my powers and the powers of my costumed persona. Whatever that ended up being.  
  
Which meant…  
  
Shit.  
  
“Oh,” I said numbly.  
  
I was fucked, wasn’t I?  
  
Which, in all honesty, was something I’d pretty much known already, even if I’d been trying really hard not to think it. Had I really thought he might just let me go? That he would give up on his goddamn mission? On me?  
  
No fucking way.  
  
Even if I wasn’t his daughter, even if he hadn’t placed his hopes for avenging my mother’s death squarely on my shoulders, I was, at the very least, a liability. A loose end. I wasn’t **planning** on outing him as a cape — whatever else he might be, he was still my father — but was he really going to take that chance? And when he realised that I was a Ward, he’d like as not just assume that I’d been forcibly recruited and brainwashed or broken to loyalty. I knew he thought that was the kind of thing they did.  
  
(Hell, maybe they really did. I didn’t know. Although Dennis and Shadow Stalker would seem to be living counterarguments against any kind of loyalty or obedience conditioning. Seriously. If such a programme existed, they would surely have been among its first recipients.)  
  
But whether he thought I’d been forcibly inducted, or joined of my own free will, he was going to come for me, wasn’t he?  
  
Ms Grant gave me a concerned look. “Are you alright?”  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said automatically. I made myself take a breath, and attempted to get my scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. “It’s just that…” What could I say? What did I even want to say?  
  
“You can speak freely here,” she said gently. “If something’s bothering you, then you can always tell me. There’s always a chance I’ll be able to help. And, if I can’t, at the very least I can listen. That’s got to count for something, right?”  
  
I felt… weird. Too hot, or maybe too cold. Like I couldn’t quite catch my breath. Like the walls were closing in. (Like there was a hand wrapped around my throat.) I didn’t know what I wanted to say, but I kind of felt like I wanted to say something. I just…  
  
“I don’t think he’s going to let me go, Ms Grant,” I said. “And I… I **can’t** go back.”  
  
Why was I even telling her this? What was the point of repeating it over and over and over again? If she hadn’t thought I was pathetic before, then surely she must do now. I mean, shit, it was taking pretty much everything I had not to huddle into my seat like some kind of terrified child. What the fuck was wrong with me?  
  
“You won’t have to go back, Astrid,” Ms Grant said, her voice soothing. “Look. I can’t say that judges don’t sometimes make bad decisions, or that people don’t twist the system to their own ends. I can’t say that miscarriages of justice don’t happen.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. Was this supposed to make me feel better? Because it really fucking wasn’t. “But I think something would have to go pretty spectacularly awry before a judge would put you back into the care of someone who hurt you the way your father did. And that’s even before the PRT weighs in on the matter.”  
  
But if Dad wanted me back, he wouldn’t fight the system in court. He’d just track me down and take me back by force. And I didn’t know if my new team mates would be able to stop him. Except… I couldn’t **say** that. I couldn’t say any of that. I couldn’t tell anyone who and what my father really was. Even aside from considerations like not wanting to out **him** , I didn’t want to out **myself**. There wasn’t a chance in hell I’d have been accepted into the Wards if they’d known the truth. And if they ever found out how I’d lied, even just by omission…  
  
In a weak, traitorous corner of my mind, I almost wished I **could** just tell Ms Grant everything; unburden myself of all my secrets in one fell swoop. But I couldn’t, so I ruthlessly stamped that idiotic impulse out as best as I could.  
  
Okay. It was way past time to get my game face back on. I needed to pull myself back together and stop being so fucking pathetic.  
  
(‘I don’t know where this weakness has come from, girl, but I’m going to beat it out of you if it’s the last fucking thing I do. I didn’t raise you to be **weak**.’)  
  
I took a deep breath.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, pleased that my voice came out reasonably level this time. “That helps a lot. And I’m sorry.”  
  
“You really don’t need to apologise.” At least Ms Grant sounded matter-of-fact, rather than pitying. “You’re allowed to feel uncertain or afraid. That’s not something you have to feel bad about, or try to hide.”  
  
What the **fuck** did she know about it? About me? All she knew was what I’d told her; what I’d let her think. Who the hell was she to tell me what I was **allowed** to feel? The only person who could give me orders was…  
  
Anger flashed white hot within me for a moment, but it died down again just as quickly as it had flared up, leaving me feely utterly drained.  
  
Fuck.  
  
What was I even thinking?  
  
I drained the rest of my coffee, in the vain hope that the caffeine help to drag me out of this sudden slump.  
  
“For what it’s worth,” she continued. “I think you’re coping remarkably well with all of this.”  
  
Did she really mean that, or was she only saying it to be polite?  
  
“Thank you,” I said anyway. There was no harm in acting like I believed her, even if I didn’t honestly know whether or not I did.  
  
God, I was so tired right now. (And, despite my best efforts, I was excruciatingly aware of just how much my body hated me after everything I’d put it through today.) Not to mention… The sound of my stomach rumbling suddenly echoed through the small office, making me flush a little with embarrassment.  
  
Apparently, I was hungry as well as tired.  
  
“Sorry about that,” I muttered.  
  
“No apology necessary,” Ms Grant said, seeming amused. “As I said: I’m used to dealing with teenagers. You young folk are always hungry. Not that I’m really one to talk, I suppose. Don’t worry, though, I won’t keep you too much longer, and then you can go and get something to eat.”  
  
I was kind of relieved to hear that. I really wasn’t sure I could handle much more in the way of conversation right now. Plus, well, I **was** hungry.  
  
She sat up a little straighter in her seat.  
  
“There’s just one more thing I wanted to discuss with you. Please give me a moment.”  
  
She twisted in her seat to open up a drawer of one of the filing cabinets, pulling out a number of papers, which she proceeded to staple together and slide into a cardboard folder she retrieved from a small stack of them in a drawer of her desk. I couldn’t help noticing that there wasn’t enough room to have the filing cabinet and desk drawers open at the same time.  
  
I started to raise my mug, then remembered that it was empty. I set it down on Ms Grant’s desk — it still felt wrong to do so without a coaster — and watched her work.  
  
Once she’d finished with the papers, she pulled over a gigantic block of post-it notes, grabbed a pen from the mug on her desk and scrawled something on the top note, pulling it off the block and sticking it to the inside of the folder. When she was done, she quickly flicked through it, nodded to herself, and slid the whole kit and caboodle across the desk to me.  
  
“Tell me,” Ms Grant said, as I automatically accepted the folder. “What do you know about the legal emancipation of minors?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I’d say this for Ms Grant: she’d certainly given me a lot to think about.  
  
I read through the papers she’d given me as I ate dinner in the staff canteen. I couldn’t honestly say I took in all of the details, even though I read through them several times. Concentrating felt like such a chore right now. My thoughts were a jumble of court hearings and guardianship and PRT politics and all the hoops I’d have to jump through to apply for legal emancipation. If I even **wanted** to take that step. Although, I was a little disturbed to realise just how much legal power the PRT would have over me if the custody proceedings went through as Ms Grant seemed to think it would.  
  
Mr Reid hadn’t told me any of that stuff. But then, I guessed he wouldn’t. On the other hand, Ms Grant was hardly an unbiased actor here. And I couldn’t imagine that pushing for this was going to necessarily make me any friends among the PRT.  
  
Well, it wasn’t a decision I needed to make right away, so I’d have the opportunity to do some research of my own. I wished I’d asked to borrow one of Ms Grant’s pens so I could have jotted down some of the questions I needed to answer. Oh well. It would be better if I went through it when I was feeling a little clearer-headed.  
  
I just hoped a good night’s sleep would help.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I really did not feel up to interacting with any of the other Wards right now. If I remembered correctly, Dean and Missy were on patrol at the moment, so at least I didn’t have to worry about running into them. Shadow Stalker had left, and it sounded like Dennis and Chris were in what was, I guessed, now the rec room. So that meant Aegis must have taken monitor duty. Dismissing Shadow Stalker from a punishment detail was an odd choice, but I wasn’t going to question him.  
  
Luckily, the current layout of the Hub made it pretty easy to avoid all three of the people currently on site.  
  
My room was somewhat larger than I remembered it, so I guessed whoever rearranged the Hub must also have given me more space at the same time. I would have to try to find out who that was so I could thank them.  
  
I attempted some schoolwork, with about as much success as I’d had reading through the information on legal emancipation. I tried reading, but kept losing my place. So I half-heartedly jotted down some notes for possible experiments with my power. But then I remembered…  
  
I dug my glass out from my bag and just… Well, I’d like to say that I carefully investigated its properties and the things I could do with it, but in reality I was just playing. It was kind of fun. Actually, it was a lot of fun. And playing with metal and glass at the same time? That was fucking **awesome**.  
  
Okay. I was going to have to get hold of a whole array of different materials.  
  
Because ripping things apart might feel pretty goddamn fantastic in ways that were just whole worlds of disturbing, but I wanted to see what I could do when I tried my hand at making things.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I kind of lost track of time a little playing with my power, but that was okay. I was still doing something useful. Practice was practice, right? Even if it was fun?  
  
What was not fun was hitting the gym that night. I took it pretty easy, but there were definitely complaints from my traitorous flesh before I was done. Despite that — or maybe because of it — I was tempted to just push myself harder. Like I could just push through the pain and come out the other side scoured clean of weakness and frailty and failure. But I knew it didn’t work like that, much though I might have wished otherwise. And that I’d only do more damage to myself in the long run. I really could not afford any more damage right now.  
  
The shower afterwards, however, was heavenly. I almost didn’t want to leave. But my bed was definitely calling me. I was so tired right now. But that was a good thing, right? Maybe it meant I would actually get a decent night’s sleep tonight.  
  
As I pottered around my room getting ready for bed, I spotted my mobile phone sitting there in my bag where I’d shoved it. I didn’t know why I picked it up. Nor did I know why I put the battery back in and turned it on. By the time I’d got that far, though, the next logical step was to check for new messages.  
  
A couple of new texts from Lance, sent this morning. Basically just calling me stupid and telling me to come home.  
  
One new voicemail from Dad.  
  
Four simple words.  
  
“Be seeing you. **Girl**.”  
  
Despite my exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily that night after all.


	22. Agoraphobia 2.09

Tuesday morning seemed to roll around both far too quickly and not nearly quickly enough. I might almost have been tempted to try to get a little more sleep but, well, sleep meant dreams and I really did not need any more of those right now.  
  
Anyway, regardless of how tired I might be, I knew I wasn’t really going to have a lie-in. I had things to do today, starting with my morning workout. I detoured via the kitchen to fill my water bottle from the tap, and ended up drinking most of it right then and there. As I refilled the bottle, I couldn’t help noticing how sore my throat felt. I really hoped I wasn’t coming down with something. I could not afford to get sick right now. (I hoped I hadn’t been screaming in my sleep. And, if I had been, I really hoped there’d been no one around to hear me.) I made a mental note to have some orange juice with my breakfast. Maybe the vitamin C would help to stave off any incipient lurgy.  
  
As I went through my workout routine, I let my awareness drift through the building, focusing on the Wards HQ specifically so I could build up my mental map of it a little bit at a time. Being able to multitask like this — to process all the information my power was giving me while working out and still maintaining reasonable situational awareness with my mundane senses — was all kinds of cool. For one thing, it meant I could work on improving my skill with my power while continuing to go about my life. This particular morning, perhaps I let my power occupy a little more of my attention than was entirely sensible, but it wasn’t like I needed to actually focus on the physical exercise. That, I could practically do in my sleep. But it was nice to be able to distract myself a little from the lingering soreness of my body.  
  
(It didn’t help as much as I would have hoped, but it did help somewhat. So that was something.)  
  
In addition to working on my fitness and strength, I also took the time to run through some drills with one of the training dummies. It made a surprising amount of difference using a proper training dummy, rather than one of the cobbled-together wood and padding structures I was used to. For one thing, hitting them didn’t hurt nearly as much.  
  
I practiced both with and without my metal, surprised all over again at how natural it felt to use my power this way. Although… Looking at the scarred and split mess I’d made of the dummy by the time I’d finished, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe some aspects of it felt a little **too** natural. I hadn’t been intending to use my wires. I certainly hadn’t been intending to use my cutting wires. But I guessed I’d gotten a little too distracted and just…  
  
Fuck.  
  
Well, all that practice during hell week had sure as shit paid off. Training dummies had better watch their step around me. I truly was a menace to the inanimate. I just hoped I didn’t end up doing something like this when fighting a live opponent. I hadn’t turned my cutting wires on Shadow Stalker — at least, I didn’t think I had; although things had gotten a little hectic at times — so that was something. But I was going to have to be really fucking careful about sparring with my powers. Let alone actually fighting for real.  
  
(I didn’t want to kill anyone by accident.)  
  
(I didn’t want to kill.)  
  
(I **wouldn’t** kill.)  
  
At least I’d had some practice at fixing one of these training dummies. I had a mental template to work from and everything.  
  
Huh. That was interesting. I **did** have a template, right there in the forefront of my mind as soon as I sent my power through the dummy with the intent of fixing it. Just my natural powers of recall at work, or some other power-related mental enhancement? I’d always had a good memory, though, and I’d trained it to be better. On a whim, I thought about the cellphones I’d studied for countless hours, mapping out components and circuits and connections when all I wanted more than anything in the whole wide world was to go to sleep and… There it was. A little hazy, perhaps, but there. I had the feeling that it would be clearer if I actually had one of those phones in my hand right now. Still not conclusive proof of anything, but it was definitely something to investigate.  
  
Anyway, fixing the dummy was a pretty straightforward task, so no one need ever know about my little slip. Just as long as it never happened again.  
  
(Control. Control. Control.)  
  
(Dammit.)  
  
(I would be better than this.)  
  
(I had to be.)  
  
Minor powers hiccup aside, my workout was a pretty good one, carefully walking the line between pushing myself and overdoing things.  
  
Something I’d had a lot of practice at.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

A shower and change of clothes saw me heading up the stairs to the canteen, practically salivating at the thought of breakfast. There was bacon there with my name on it. And scrambled eggs. And… Oooh, maybe they’d have sautéed mushrooms. I did mean sautéed, rather than fried; too much oil just made them turn soggy and rubbery. I was… kind of picky about my mushrooms. But I’d forgive all manner of mycological missteps as long as they had bacon and plenty of it. Preferably crispy enough to crunch, but moist enough to have a little bit of give to it in the middle. Okay, maybe I was kind of picky about my bacon as well.  
  
Well, whatever.  
  
I’d eat it anyway, but I couldn’t help getting my hopes up for something a little better than merely edible.  
  
The smells wafting from the canteen were definitely a good sign. The line for the cooked breakfast counter both was and wasn’t. On the plus side: the food was clearly worth waiting for. On the minus side: what if they ran out before I got there? It would probably have been something of an exaggeration to say that my heart was in my mouth by the time I finally reached the counter, but probably rather less of one than I would have preferred. Alright, perhaps I was being a little bit ridiculous but… bacon.  
  
(And God knew I needed something to distract myself from what had been a truly awful night. Not to mention the fear that Dad was waiting to grab me the moment I set foot outside the building.)  
  
Much to my delight, my worries about getting there just in time to see my breakfast cruelly snatched away turned out to be completely groundless. There was plenty left. Maybe the mushrooms were just a little soggier than I would have preferred, but that was fine. The important thing was that the bacon was just **perfect**.  
  
I quickly acquired a mug of coffee, a glass of orange juice and an apple, trying not to tap my foot impatiently as I waited in line at the till. Seriously, why **was** this place so crowded? There hadn’t been this many people around for breakfast yesterday morning. It wasn’t even oh-eight-hundred hours yet. Studying the other people a little more closely, a thought that had been tugging at the edges of my mind — beneath the potent gustatory anticipation — snapped more clearly into focus. Most of the people in here were soldiers, not administrators or support staff. Many of them looked exhausted, and a number were sporting visible injuries, although nothing that looked too serious. I wondered what had happened.  
  
Now I’d realised what I’d actually walked into, I felt a little like I was intruding. I wasn’t one of them, after all, and I hadn’t been through what they’d just been through.  
  
(But it also felt a little bit like… home. I’d been around soldiers of one sort or another most of my life. And sure, most of the people Dad recruited, worked with or worked for were pricks of the highest order, but I knew how to act around them. I knew where I fit. So being around these people felt kind of right. Or, at least, like it should feel right. But I still felt like I was trespassing.)  
  
(It was really fucking weird.)  
  
(So I did my level best to ignore it.)  
  
I may possibly have eavesdropped shamelessly as I wandered around the canteen looking for somewhere to sit. From the snippets of conversations I picked up here and there, there’d been some kind of operation last night and it… hadn’t gone well. E88 came up a couple of times, often preceded or followed by expletives.  
  
(I tried to ignore the chill that ran down my spine whenever I thought about the Empire — whenever I thought about Kaiser — burying it beneath the just-as-familiar flare of anger and hatred.)  
  
(I tried to distract myself from both of those by focusing on how hungry I was.)  
  
I heard the name Alabaster once or twice, once pronounced as ‘Alabastard,’ which made me smirk a little. Hookwolf and Cricket were also mentioned, and if those two were involved in whatever had gone down, then Stormtiger had undoubtedly been there right along with them.  
  
(Dad had had high hopes for recruiting those three when we were ready to make a serious move against the Empire. According to him, Hookwolf was in it more for the fighting than out of any particular loyalty to Kaiser. So if we could give him a strong leader to follow, and promise him one hell of a rumble, Dad seemed to think we might be able to persuade him to jump ship. And if he fell in line, then Stormtiger and Cricket were likely to follow. Or so Dad said.)  
  
(I guessed he’d know.)  
  
A few other names were tossed around, too. Viking. Panzer. Renegade. That last one gave me pause. I hadn’t realised he’d actually joined up with the Empire. He was an independent, last I heard. Not to mention one sick fuck.  
  
(Dad had briefly considered trying to recruit him, but thought him ‘too undisciplined’. Didn’t think he’d follow orders well. I guessed the clue was in the name.)  
  
Dammit. Were there no free tables at all? My breakfast was going to be cold by the time I finally sat down. I found that prospect quite distressing.  
  
“Astrid.”  
  
Startled, I turned around to see a familiar figure seated at one of the tables, beckoning me over. Resisting the urge to tug my mask down — my power reassured me that it was still firmly in place — I crossed the short distance and stood as much to attention as I could manage with a tray clutched in my hands.  
  
“Good morning, Sir,” I said cautiously, wondering what he wanted.  
  
“Well, it’s morning, anyway,” Captain Cavendish sighed, sounding weary. Still, despite his obvious tiredness, he managed a small smile as he asked: “Can’t find anywhere to sit?”  
  
“It’s… a little crowded in here, Sir,” I said, uncomfortably aware at the curious glances I was getting from the man and woman seated with him.  
  
They were both wearing PRT uniforms, albeit without the helmets and outer layer of body armour. Soldiers, like so many of the other people in here. Late twenties or early thirties. I noted with approval that the woman wore her hair cut short. She had an old, faded scar across her right cheek, narrowly missing her eye. Looked like a knife wound, or something similar.  
  
“Pull up a seat,” Captain Cavendish said affably, gesturing towards the empty space diagonally across from him, next to the woman and directly across from the man. “You’re more than welcome to join us.”  
  
I felt… conflicted. I’d be able to eat my breakfast (bacon!) while it was still hot, but I’d be eating with an officer. That would pretty much put the kibosh on my plan of doing schoolwork while I ate.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to intrude, Sir,” I demurred.  
  
“You wouldn’t be,” he told me firmly, and grinned. “But if you just don’t want to hang around with us old folk, we’re almost done, so you won’t have to put up with our company for long.”  
  
I wasn’t going to touch **that** comment with a ten foot pole, so I just muttered: “Thank you, Sir,” and set my tray on the table and sat down.  
  
“Astrid, please stop calling me Sir,” he burst out all of a sudden, sounding almost… pained? Or just irritated. “If you’d rather not call me Cav, or even Cavendish, then Captain is fine, but I’d honestly prefer any of those to Sir. It’s really not necessary, especially not from you. And it just makes me want to start swearing a blue streak when I think about why-” He broke off mid-sentence and shook his head. “Dammit,” he muttered, practically under his breath.  
  
I froze, completely and utterly thrown. Had I been annoying him? Had he been wanting to say this all the time I was in his office on Sunday? But I’d thought I was being respectful. I mean, I knew he’d said I didn’t have to, but he didn’t say I **shouldn’t**. That wasn’t the same thing at all. If he’d meant he’d **rather** I didn’t, then he should have said that, and if he’d told me to stop, I would have done. Just like I more or less managed to stop calling Ms Grant ‘Ma’am.’ I could only go on what he **said**. I wasn’t a fucking mind reader!  
  
These people made no goddamned sense.  
  
“I hope I haven’t caused offence, Captain,” I said. I sounded a little stiff, but I was just relieved that my voice didn’t shake.  
  
Seriously, what was it with these people? I mean, I could understand it with Ms Grant. She, at least, wasn’t military. But Captain Cavendish and Aegis were both commanders. They were certainly both senior to me. Aegis was the fucking Wards team leader! He was my direct superior! It didn’t **get** clearer than that. Or so I’d thought. And as for Captain Cavendish… If he was the duty officer for his shift then, at least so far as I understood it, he was responsible for overseeing and coordinating all current deployments and active missions. I might still be somewhat hazy on the specifics of the chain of command regarding the Wards, but if he could issue commands regarding PRT resources, assets and personnel, and if the Wards were effectively PRT personnel (or assets, depending on how they viewed us), then didn’t that meant he could command us?  
  
In any case, wasn’t it normal to address both of them with the respect due their position?  
  
So why had they looked at me like I was doing something strange?  
  
“No. No, of course not,” he said, but the words were contradicted by the frown on his face and the edge to his voice. (I tried not to think about a hand wrapping around my throat and starting to squeeze. I tried really fucking hard.) “That wasn’t what I meant, not at all. It’s just…” He rubbed at his face, the dark circles under his eyes seeming to stand out starkly against the pallor of his skin. “I’m a little tired right now, and I’m not doing so well with words.”  
  
He was probably just trying not to lose his temper with me in public.  
  
I must have really fucked up. Somehow. I must really have pissed him off, and I didn’t even know how.  
  
I didn’t know what I’d done, but I must have done **something**.  
  
(If I wasn’t such a fuck up, then Dad wouldn’t have to discipline me so much.)  
  
I really, really wished I’d never sat down here in the first place. Hell, I wished I’d never turned around when he called my name. Except then I’d probably be in trouble for ignoring him.  
  
Fuck.  
  
What was wrong with me?  
  
Why did I keep fucking up?  
  
(Maybe if I was better, maybe if I was stronger, maybe if I didn’t make so many mistakes, then maybe I wouldn’t deserve to be punished nearly so often.)  
  
Sometimes I wondered if I could do anything right.  
  
“Here, Cav,” said the woman sitting next to me, startling me. She picked up her mug and held it out to Captain Cavendish. “I think you need this more than I do.”  
  
“Thanks,” he muttered, accepting the mug and knocking back half the contents in one go. “I’ll let you handle introductions. Since, unlike me, you’re actually awake right now.” He gave her a thoroughly disgusted look. “Somehow.”  
  
Maybe… Maybe that meant Captain Cavendish wasn’t going to discipline me for my mistakes. At least not right now.  
  
(I was being stupid. I was being weak. If the captain was going to punish me, there wasn’t anything I could do about it, so there was no point whatsoever in freaking out about it now. It might not even happen. And even if it did, so what? It was just pain. I wasn’t scared of a little pain.)  
  
(And maybe if he did discipline me, he’d at least tell me what I’d done to deserve it. That would mean I’d know what to avoid in future. I’d know how I could be better.)  
  
Either way, I needed to pull myself together.   
  
“I put it down to clean living and a pure heart,” she told him cheerfully, and then smirked in a way that could only be described as thoroughly wicked. Even through my unease, I felt my cheeks heat a little, glad that the blush was largely concealed by the mask and the bruises. The captain rolled his eyes, but forbore to comment, merely taking another drink from the mug she’d handed him. The table’s other occupant, on the other hand, snorted loudly and skeptically.  
  
“Pure, my ass,” he muttered, and then started in his seat. “Hey!” He gave her an indignant look. “Did you just kick me?”  
  
“Oops,” she said, completely deadpan. “My foot slipped. So terribly sorry.”  
  
I blinked at the pair of them, a little bewildered by their shenanigans. These were soldiers? And this was how they behaved in front of a superior officer? But then… Captain Cavendish didn’t seem angry. (Not at them, anyway.) And he clearly favoured a more informal command style than Dad. This was somewhat more informal than I would have expected, but then they were eating breakfast together. That probably meant they were at ease. Even so, I couldn’t help feeling a little uncomfortable.  
  
Okay, make that really fucking uncomfortable.  
  
(I was still pretty fucking rattled by the fact that I’d pissed the captain off so much without realising it.)  
  
I tried to ignore it.  
  
“Introductions?” Captain Cavendish reminded her. He glanced over at me and gave me a tired smile. “Don’t let these jokers distract you from your breakfast, Astrid. No point letting it get cold.”  
  
Okay, now I was just confused.  
  
“Although, if you don’t want it…” said the man, eyeing my precious, precious bacon with a covetous air that I didn’t like one bit. I may possibly have narrowed my eyes at him a little as I swiftly picked up my knife and fork.  
  
“I definitely want it,” I said firmly, and I would have added a Sir, but now I was second-guessing myself because it seemed like I couldn’t rely on **anything** I thought I knew about showing the proper respect with these people. So I mentally crossed my fingers and just started eating.  
  
It was **totally** worth the wait.  
  
(Even if I was a little too distracted to enjoy it fully.)  
  
“Right,” said the woman, briskly. “Introductions. I’m Seraph. Well, Marlene Serafinowicz, but everyone here calls me Seraph.”  
  
(I could almost hear Dad’s voice, muttering darkly about… words I refused to think. I pushed it aside, concentrating on the taste of the bacon; on the way I could feel the structure of the protein and fat and everything else that went into making it so very delicious. Wow. That actually made it taste even better.)  
  
“Because you’re pure as an angel, right?” the man said, laughing a little.  
  
“Because I’m a righteous being of fire and fury,” she said flatly, and then shrugged, giving me a small smile. “Or because none of these assholes can be bothered to say Serafinowicz. I mean, **seriously**. It’s only five syllables.” I smiled back at her, a little uncertainly, wondering if I should introduce myself, but she was already continuing. “This idiot here is Jinx.”  
  
“Murphy,” he corrected, glaring at her.  
  
“Everyone calls you Jinx,” she said, seemingly unmoved by his displeasure.  
  
“No one but you calls me that.”  
  
“It’ll catch on, you’ll see,” she assured him, and grinned. “I’ll make sure of it.”  
  
I couldn’t help thinking that Seraph and Jinx sounded a lot like cape names.  
  
Murphy scowled at Seraph, and then pointedly ignored her, his gaze softening he turned to me. “Adrian Murphy. But everyone calls me Murphy. Or Murphs, if they’re feeling lazy. And you’re Astrid?”  
  
I nodded, quickly chewing and swallowing my mouthful of breakfast.  
  
“Nice to meet you both,” I said.  
  
Captain Cavendish snorted, apparently having been revived somewhat by what I assumed was probably coffee. Or maybe tea. Something with caffeine, anyway.  
  
“See if you feel that way after spending more than a few minutes with them,” he told me dryly, before addressing the pair in question. “As you probably guessed from the mask, Astrid here has just joined the Wards.” He smiled at me. “Congratulations, by the way. Glad to have you aboard.”  
  
Wait. Did this mean he wasn’t angry with me? But I’d been so **sure**. I thought… I just…  
  
I didn’t know anything anymore.  
  
All I wanted to do right now was get through breakfast without pissing anyone off. Especially Captain Cavendish.  
  
Well, that and to actually eat my breakfast. That was definitely a very close second to not making anyone angry with me.  
  
“Thank you, S-, ah, Captain,” I said, mentally kicking myself for my near-slip. I wondered how he knew I’d actually joined the Wards now. Maybe he just assumed by the fact that I was still here. Or maybe he’d actually asked about me. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about the second possibility.  
  
“Are you settling in alright?”  
  
“I think so,” I said, between bites of breakfast, not entirely sure if he meant as a Ward or as a resident of the Wards HQ. I guessed my answer would be the same either way, even if I was struggling a little to figure out some of my new team mates. Okay, make that most of my new team mates. Actually, I was just going to assume he was asking about my living quarters. It was easier that way. “Although I’ll be glad when I can get some furniture for my room.” Especially a desk and chair. I definitely needed somewhere to work that wasn’t the Hub. “I’m really impressed with the gym in the Wards HQ.”  
  
“It’s a pretty good set up,” he agreed, nodding. “In addition to my other duties, I sometimes fill in as a combat training instructor for the Wards,” he added, and raised an eyebrow at me. “Although I hear you may not need much help in that regard.”  
  
Okay, he’d definitely been talking to **someone**. I really wished I knew who that was and what they’d said.  
  
I took a drink of coffee to give myself a moment to figure out how I should reply to that, settling on:  
  
“I have had some training already, Captain, but there’s always room for improvement.”  
  
“Oh, the director’s going to love you,” Murphy said, grinning wryly. I frowned. Was he mocking me? I wasn’t entirely sure. I certainly hoped the director wouldn’t be displeased with me. I mean, as the head of the PRT, that put her squarely at the top of the Wards’ chain of command. The last thing I would want was to piss her off.  
  
I tried to bury my vague feelings of irritation and unease in bacon. Not that I had much of that left, I noted mournfully.  
  
“You practically inhaled that,” Seraph observed.  
  
I shrugged, cutting the motion short when my back twinged again.  
  
“I was hungry,” I said, simply. I finished the last scraps of my breakfast and washed it down with my orange juice.  
  
(I couldn’t help cursing Shadow Stalker just a little bit as I shifted in my seat. Those welts had been fucking **healing** until she opened them right up again. Okay, maybe they hadn’t healed as much as they would have done without the challenges of hell week, but they were getting there. She’d set me back days. Certainly at least a couple of days.)  
  
(That was the second most annoying thing about Dad thrashing me with his belt: how long the damage took to heal.)  
  
(The **most** annoying was how fucking humiliating it was. I really, really, really hated being humiliated.)  
  
“The food here’s not bad,” Murphy said. “Sometimes it can be a bit samey, but they have been trying to mix it up a bit lately.”  
  
“New manager,” Seraph said dismissively. “Give it a couple of weeks, though, and they’ll get tired of trying to change things. Then it’ll be back to the same old stuff, day in, day out. You’ll see.”  
  
“That’s awfully cynical,” Captain Cavendish observed.  
  
“I prefer to think of it as realistic,” she retorted. “It’s not my fault if reality has a cynical bent.”  
  
“You know,” Murphy said. “For someone so perky, you can be terribly depressing at times.”  
  
“And for someone called Jinx, you can be disgustingly optimistic.”  
  
“I told you,” he complained. “You’re the only one who calls me Jinx.”  
  
I studied them as they bickered back and forth. They sounded cheerful enough, but there was a brittleness to it. Some of it was likely tiredness — although Seraph seemed to be practically vibrating with energy compared to the other two — but there was more to it. There was a particular quality to the tension that I recognised: the aftermath to a mission gone awry; those moments after the last shot had been fired, but before the dust had settled. When you were waiting to find out just how fucked things really were.  
  
“Alright, that’s enough,” Captain Cavendish complained after a little while. “You’re both disgustingly energetic. It’s making me cranky.”  
  
“Cav’s not a morning person,” Seraph mock-whispered.  
  
“I can handle mornings just fine,” he retorted. “Not so much mornings after a shift I shouldn’t have worked because I’m switching back to days and was trying to adjust my sleeping patterns accordingly.”  
  
“Why don’t you go home?” she said, her tone and demeanour startlingly serious all of a sudden. “Lysowski’s got everything under control. You know you trained her well, so she definitely doesn’t need her former boss looking over her shoulder and back-seat driving. You can debrief later, after you’ve actually slept.” She mustered a smile, but it was half-hearted. “God knows you need your beauty sleep.”  
  
“I can’t leave yet,” he said quietly. “We’re still waiting on the final casualty report. I have to be here for that.”  
  
I had the feeling that he might have forgotten I was here. That maybe they all had. I stayed very quiet as I drank my coffee, not wanting to draw attention. What the hell had happened last night? They’d obviously some kind of run in with the Empire, and it hadn’t gone well for them, but beyond that? I really wanted to ask about it, but I wasn’t sure how my curiosity would be received. Maybe if I stayed quiet, they’d reveal more information.  
  
“There wouldn’t be so many casualties if we’d had more cape support,” Murphy muttered, sounding pissed off. “And better intel.”  
  
“Murphy.” The captain’s voice was quiet, but the rebuke was clear.  
  
“He’s only saying what we’re all thinking,” Seraph said. “This op was fucked from the get-go, even if we didn’t know it at the time.” She started to say something else, but then glanced at me and went quiet.  
  
Damn.  
  
“This is neither the time nor the place,” Captain Cavendish said, and **there** was the commander I’d been expecting since I’d first set eyes on him. “If you have concerns, then raise them during your debrief, or come to me or Lysowski in private. Understood?”  
  
Seraph hesitated a moment, and then nodded. “Understood.”  
  
“Yeah,” Murphy muttered. “Sorry, Cav. I’m just tired. And frustrated.”  
  
“We’re all tired,” Captain Cavendish muttered, relaxing fractionally. He glanced at Seraph and mustered a grin. “Except you. You sure you don’t have some parahuman ability I don’t know about?”  
  
“I’m a robot,” she deadpanned.  
  
“I’d buy that,” Murphy said, nodding thoughtfully. “It **would** explain your sense of humour. No mere human can make that many puns.”  
  
She tilted her head a little, fixing him with a completely blank stare. “Are you saying you find my sense of humour a little… pungent? Maybe even… punishing? Should I perhaps punctuate my puns with something… punchier?”  
  
I winced. I wondered if she knew Dennis at all. If not, I made a mental note to never, ever let the two of them meet.  
  
Murphy groaned aloud and dropped his head on the table with a thunk, narrowly missing his empty plate.  
  
“Make her stop, Cav,” he wailed. “I just can’t take it any more.”  
  
Seraph grinned. “Wimp,” she pronounced, sounding pleased with herself.  
  
Captain Cavendish rolled his eyes. “To completely change the subject,” he said, firmly, and, much to my surprise, turned to look at me. “Astrid, I would greatly appreciate it if you could forget anything you might have heard here that you possibly shouldn’t.”  
  
Ah. He didn’t want news of dissent in the ranks to spread any further than it undoubtedly already had. I could understand that. I gave him a politely curious look.  
  
“I’m not sure what you mean, Captain,” I said lightly. “I didn’t hear anything.”  
  
He grinned. “Good girl,” he told me, and I automatically sat up a little straighter, felt a little better, knowing that he was pleased with me.  
  
(I hated that it made me feel a little bit like a trained fucking dog, ridiculously happy at the slightest scrap of praise.)  
  
(I hated that even as I hated it, it still felt good.)  
  
“Yep,” said Murphy, nodding sagely. “The director’s definitely going to love you.”  
  
“What does that mean?” I heard myself asking, a little horrified at the distinctly suspicious note to my voice. It wasn’t hostile, quite, but it was definitely heading there.  
  
What the hell was wrong with me?  
  
Fortunately, Murphy just grinned, seeming amused rather than annoyed.  
  
“Nothing bad, don’t worry,” he said, which told me nothing useful. I tried in vain to push down my, irritation, thankful once again for my mask. Okay, the mask did jack and shit to conceal by body language, but I thought I more or less had that under control. Murphy’s expression turned thoughtful as he studied me. “So, just out of curiosity, what’s your thing?”  
  
I blinked at him.  
  
“My… thing?”  
  
“He means your power,” Seraph clarified. “Have to admit, I’m kind of curious myself. Is it something you can show off here?”  
  
“I think maybe you should stop pestering Astrid,” Captain Cavendish said, sounding a little concerned for some reason.  
  
“I don’t mind, Captain,” I assured him.  
  
Mind having a chance to use my power? Mind having an excuse to stop keeping it in check, even in just a small way? Like **fuck** did I mind. I could feel my power practically sit up and beg me to use it.  
  
(There I went again, anthropomorphising it. I really needed to stop doing that. Although, I guessed in this instance it was more like cynomorphising. Which I was fairly sure wasn’t actually a thing, let alone a real word, but it definitely should be.)  
  
“Well, if you’re sure,” he said dubiously.  
  
I didn’t really want to roll my sleeves up, so I made my metal flow out from underneath, bristling into wires.  
  
“I’m a matter manipulator,” I told Seraph and Murphy, feeling calmer already. Without looking, I made my metal shift and flow. On a whim, I reached out and touched my now-empty glass, turning it into a reasonable facsimile of a bonsai tree. It wasn’t nearly as intricate as the one in Ms Grant’s office, but it was recognisably a tree, at least. I had a moment or two to feel proud of it before the guilt set in. Because, technically, I’d just destroyed PRT property. Or, vandalised it? No, destroyed. Since it was definitely no longer fit for purpose as a drinking glass any more. Feeling self-conscious, I returned my metal to quiescence. (It felt like it didn’t want to go back.) “That’s it, I guess,” I said, awkwardly.  
  
“Nice,” Murphy said, looking at the glass tree. He seemed to mean it, as far as I could tell. Seraph, on the other hand, I couldn’t read at all. She studied both the tree and me with the same neutral expression. Whatever she might be feeling right now — if anything at all — it certainly didn’t show.  
  
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Murphy picked up the tree, holding it up to the light and turning it this way and that. I choked back my instinctive protest, reminding myself that it wasn’t really mine; it just felt that way. That he didn’t **have** to ask my permission.  
  
(I only just stopped myself from either flinching or lashing out when Murphy moved. I honestly wasn’t sure which response it would have been.)  
  
“I, uh, should probably fix that,” I muttered, gesturing to the tree.  
  
“Seems a shame to,” he said. “But fine.” He sighed theatrically, and set it back down on my tray.  
  
Glancing around the table, I spotted an empty glass on his tray. “Do you mind if I grab that for a second?”  
  
“Knock yourself out, Kid,” he said magnanimously.  
  
I bit back the angry response that hovered right on the tip of my tongue, focusing my attention on the glass so I didn’t glare at Murphy. I wasn’t a fucking child. I hadn’t been one of those for a while, whatever the law said. I learned the shape of the glass, building a template in my mind. It didn’t take that long. And then I just…  
  
 _(Duplicate.)_  
  
…changed the tree to match it.  
  
Huh. That was refreshingly straightforward.  
  
Honestly, I could probably have done this without the template. The glass was a pretty simple object, after all. And I had handled a few of them over the past couple of days. I mean, it wasn’t absolutely **identical** to the other one. Not to my power, anyway. But I honestly doubted a casual glance would pick up any significant differences. Well, none that any reasonable person would complain about, anyway. Because the one major difference between that glass and the one I’d remade was that mine looked brand fucking new.  
  
Basically, mine was **better**.  
  
(It was utterly ridiculous quite how pleased that made me.)  
  
(It was really fucking disturbing the way I was starting to feel quite possessive of that glass.)  
  
“Just out of curiosity,” Captain Cavendish said, eyeing me speculatively. “And please don’t feel that you have to answer this if you don’t want to. But… does your power work on other types of materials?”  
  
“Yes,” I said, after a moment of dithering. “But some substances are easier than others.”  
  
I carefully avoided saying that my power worked on objects, not single substances.  
  
Actually… that was an interesting thought. Could I duplicate more complicated objects? Assuming, of course, that I had a template and the relevant materials to hand. Oh, that was **definitely** something I would have to look into. Of course, I would first have to master **analysing** complicated objects, which was still a work in progress. But I was definitely improving!  
  
I did have a feeling that, in order to get the most out of my power, I was going to have to study. A **lot**. Chemistry and materials science for a start. Maybe electronics and electrical engineering. Hell, if I was going to mess around with anything on the level of buildings and streets, why not throw some structural engineering in there too?  
  
Fuck.  
  
It was a damn good thing I enjoyed learning. I just wondered how I was going to find the time to fit all of that in. Shit, how was I going to find the time to fit even half of that in? Not for the first time, I lamented the fact that my power didn’t come with a side order of never needing to sleep ever again. That would have been **amazing**. But, alas, it was apparently not to be.  
  
“Careful, Astrid,” Seraph said, giving me a lopsided smile. “I know how Cav thinks. He’s wondering if he can persuade you to try your hand at fixing all the stuff that tends to get wrecked when we go out in the field. Because if we don’t have to keep ordering replacements, then we can spend that part of our budget on other things.”  
  
Captain Cavendish gave Seraph a vaguely offended look. “I was just asking questions, that’s all,” he said with great dignity. Of course, the dignified effect was somewhat spoiled when he abruptly yawned widely, belatedly clapping his hand over his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said, the words a little muffled. He shook his head, dropping his hand. “I think that was a sign that I should get some more coffee,” he said, wryly. “Anyway, we three have probably taken up table space here long enough.” He pushed his chair back and stood.  
  
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Murphy sighed, clambering wearily to his feet.  
  
“It was bound to happen sometime,” Seraph murmured, practically bounding to her feet.  
  
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” the captain said, dryly.  
  
Murphy glared at Seraph. “How the f-“ he glanced at me. “Hell are you so perky, Seraph? I swear, I really hate you, sometimes.”  
  
I didn’t know whether to be amused or irritated that he thought he shouldn’t swear around me. I settled on a combination of both.  
  
“And I am nourished by your hate,” she told him, serenely. “Come, Jinx, warm me with the fires of your loathing.”  
  
“Yep, definitely a robot,” he grumbled. “An evil robot. Probably one that’s going to try to take over the world.”  
  
“Aw, you say the sweetest things.” She beamed at him and he groaned loudly. She just grinned wider.  
  
Murphy turned to me. “Nice meeting you, Astrid. And good luck with the Wards stuff.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said. Checking my watch, I stood up myself, managing to avoid trying to brace myself with my bad wrist.  
  
“You don’t have to leave just because we are,” Captain Cavendish said.  
  
“I was finished anyway,” I told him, putting my uneaten apple in my bag and gathering up my tray. It still felt really fucking weird not to call him Sir. “And I have things to do.” I hesitated a moment, and then added: “Thank you for inviting me to sit with you, Captain.”  
  
“That’s alright,” he said, smiling at me. “It was nice to have some mature company for a change.”  
  
“Did you hear that, Murphs?” Seraph said as we headed over to dump our trays and rubbish. (I tried to tell myself I didn’t feel a pang as I abandoned my glass to the tender mercies of the canteen staff and, subsequently, its customers.) “I think Cav’s saying we’re immature.”  
  
Murphy affected a shocked expression. “Us, Seraph? You and me? But aren’t we the very pinnacle of maturity?”  
  
“Indeed, Murphy.” She smiled, and if I was Captain Cavendish I thought I would be very worried right about now. “And it’s a good thing too, because if we weren’t, then perhaps one of us might be tempted to do something a little bit… mischievous.”  
  
The captain winced. “Would it help if I retracted my statement?” he asked, not sounding like he held out much hope of the answer being yes.  
  
“Something mischievous?” Murphy said to Seraph, as if Captain Cavendish hadn’t even spoken. “Like what?”  
  
(This was starting to weird me out. Obviously he tolerated a certain amount of backtalk and banter from the people below him, but surely he had to be reaching his limit? Surely at some point soon he was going to lose patience and discipline them? Even if his line was in a different place to my father’s, he must still have a line. And when someone crossed it, I couldn’t believe his response would be any different. That was just the way things worked.)  
  
“Like, say, calling him Nightingale.”  
  
I was watching Seraph, completely nonplussed by the seeming non-sequitur. So I didn’t see his reaction, but I did see her distinctly self-satisfied smirk in response to whatever his expression was. By the time I glanced at him, he was merely looking… wary.  
  
“Where did you hear that name?” he asked her.  
  
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” she said, airily.  
  
“Two things,” Murphy said. “First, a lady might not kiss and tell, but you f-“ Again, that little glance at me. I tried not to roll my eyes. “You do. There’s a reason I keep calling you Miss TMI. And second.” He looked between Seraph and Captain Cavendish with raised eyebrows. “Nightingale?”  
  
“Cav’s old callsign back in the day,” she told him, her smile turning positively gleeful. “And I know **why**.”  
  
“You do not,” Captain Cavendish retorted, but he didn’t look at all certain.  
  
“Want me to prove it?” she challenged him.  
  
I kind of hoped she did. This was intriguing. (Even if it still seemed fucking surreal to see someone sassing a superior officer and not getting smacked down for it. Not even a little.)  
  
He opened his mouth, hesitated, and slumped a little. “No,” he said. “I want to pretend you never even said that name. How about we do that instead?”  
  
“Why of course, Cav,” she trilled, grinning widely. “Since you ask so nicely and all.”  
  
“But now I want to know the story!” Murphy protested. To my great surprise, he looked pleadingly at me. “You’ll support me in this, won’t you Astrid? Don’t you want to know too?”  
  
I did. I really, really did.  
  
But…  
  
I conspicuously checked my watch. “Is that the time?” I said, my voice deadpan. “I really should get going.” More genuinely, I added: “Thanks again for letting me share your table.” It had been stressful, but interesting. Overall, I probably didn’t actually regret it. We exchanged goodbyes — Murphy loudly bemoaning the lack of support from me, Seraph being inscrutable and Captain Cavendish being tired, yet seemingly affable — but I hesitated before leaving. There was something else I wanted to say, but it would definitely spoil the mood. And yet… And yet. I still felt it needed to be said.  
  
I took a deep breath and stood to attention, despite the way the skin of my back pulled uncomfortably. (I was going to do this properly, even if it hurt.) “Captain Cavendish, Murphy, Seraph: I’m sorry for your losses in the field.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I was right: my words definitely brought the mood down. But, at the same time, all three of them seemed to appreciate the sentiment. If it had been me mourning fallen comrades, I think I would have wanted someone to acknowledge their sacrifice.  
  
I was just glad I didn’t seem to have read them wrong.  
  
Not that time, anyway.  
  
My missteps with Captain Cavendish weighed on my mind a little as I worked on another assignment for school while keeping a small part of my attention on continuing to map out the Wards HQ. It bothered me, that I’d screwed up so badly. Not just because I didn’t want him to discipline me, but because he’d almost seemed a little… upset? And I kind of liked him. I didn’t want to cause him distress. But maybe that hadn’t been because of me. Maybe that had been due to last night’s apparent clusterfuck with the Empire.  
  
I wondered if the rest of the team knew anything about it.  
  
I wondered if Gallant and Vista might have been involved.  
  
Great. Something else to worry about.  
  
An alarm blared out suddenly, making me jump.  
  
(Ow, ow, fucking ow.)  
  
After a moment’s confusion, I realised it was the ‘mask-up’ alert. A non-Ward must be coming to the HQ. I reached over to snag my mask, settling it over my face. As far as I knew, I was the only one around, so I guessed whoever it was must be coming to see me. My heart sped up a little as I waited for whoever it was to enter the Hub.  
  
The visitor turned out to be a suited, slightly harried-looking man in his twenties. He smiled politely when he saw me, and I got to my feet.  
  
“Astrid?” he asked.  
  
“Yes, Sir.”  
  
I had a moment of trepidation wondering how he was going to respond, but he just nodded briskly and held something out to me. An envelope. I accepted it automatically.  
  
“You have a meeting with Director Piggot at ten. The envelope contains directions to her office. Don’t be late.”  
  
Without waiting for my reply — or even introducing himself — he turned and hurried out again. I heard the elevator whir to life.  
  
A little stunned, I just stood there for a moment, holding the envelope.  
  
I was going to meet the director.  
  
I mean, I’d assumed it was going to happen at some point, but I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon.  
  
I was going to meet the director today. In — I checked my watch — just over an hour.  
  
I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t nearly ready for this.  
  
I was going to meet the **director**.  
  
I just hoped I didn’t fuck this up too.


	23. Agoraphobia 2.10

I raised my hand to knock at the door, and then hesitated. I took a deep breath, and then another one, trying to tell myself I wasn’t nervous. I couldn’t even muster up the will to pretend I actually believed that. Alright. Okay. I could do this. I took a moment to adjust my mask — completely unnecessarily — and send my power rippling through the building.  
  
It helped.  
  
Right.  
  
Before I could second guess myself (again), I raised my hand and knocked firmly (but not too firmly) on the door.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
The woman behind the desk — according to the sign on the door, this was Ms Sarah Danvers, personal assistant to Director Piggot — looked up as I entered the office, holding up a finger in a clear ‘just a moment’ gesture. She was wearing a headset, obviously in the middle of a conversation with someone. I came to attention and tried not to look like I was eavesdropping.  
  
“As I’m sure you can appreciate,” Ms Danvers was saying. “The director is a very busy woman. I’m afraid a week Friday is the earliest available space in her schedule.” She was quiet for a few moments, and then said, politely but firmly. “I understand completely, and I do sympathise, but I’m afraid my hands are tied.”  
  
The conversation seemed to continue in much the same vein for a little while longer, Ms Danvers remaining unfailingly calm and polite, and yet not budging an inch, despite the person on the other end being seemingly quite persistent. I supposed she must have had a lot of practice at fielding calls from people wanting the director’s ear. I was a little impressed that she continued to work at her computer as she spoke, her fingers fairly flying over the keys. I mean, my own multitasking skills might have improved (might be improving?), but I still thought I would be hard-pressed to keep up a conversation while doing much of anything else.  
  
Hell, the last few days I’d been regularly putting both feet in it even when I **did** watch what I said.  
  
(I really hoped I didn’t put my foot in it with the director.)  
  
The office was meticulously organised, I observed with approval. It was certainly a lot less cluttered than Ms Grant’s office. (Although, if I was honest, I kind of preferred Ms Grant’s room to this one. Even if that didn’t really make much sense.) Ms Danvers herself was impeccably attired in a simple yet smart business suit, her dark hair swept back off her face and secured with a clip.  
  
(She was dark-skinned, I couldn’t help but note. Even though I didn’t **want** to take note of it.)  
  
(Didn’t want it to throw up a list of questions about her that I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have had if she’d been white.)  
  
(Sometimes… Sometimes I really hated my father.)  
  
(Sometimes I wondered if I’d ever get him and his poison out of my head.)  
  
(Sometimes I wondered if those thoughts would ever stop making me feel disloyal.)  
  
Eventually, she said: “Actually, I believe I might possibly be able to move things around a little to free up a small amount of time later this week. I’m afraid it will likely only be a phone meeting, though. I don’t know whether that would be at all acceptable to you, but- It would? Excellent. Now, there are two potential slots…”  
  
As she finalised the details of the phone meeting, I could swear I saw the tiniest of smiles curve her lips, and a gleam in her eyes that looked almost like triumph. I strongly suspected that she hadn’t had to do any rearranging of the director’s schedule at all. In fact, I would go so far as to hypothesise that she’d had the phone meeting in mind all the time, and had just let the person on the other end think they’d talked her into it.  
  
Or maybe I was just reading entirely too much into what could merely have been a trick of the light. I kind of hoped I wasn’t though, because I could really respect someone who had the kind of people skills to pull off a trick like that so effortlessly.  
  
(Did I say respect? Maybe I meant envy. Actually, no: I definitely meant both.)  
  
A short while later, Ms Danvers finished with her call and turned her attention to me, her gaze coolly appraising. I found myself standing a little straighter, wondering uneasily if I was dressed smartly enough for a meeting with the director of the PRT. Unfortunately, I didn’t really have a whole lot of wardrobe options at the moment.  
  
“Good morning. Are you here to see Director Piggot?”  
  
I would have been astounded if she didn’t already know the answer to that. In fact, if she didn’t know exactly who I was and what I was there for, I would eat my mask. As the director’s assistant, she was probably the one who’d dispatched the besuited man — presumably some kind of administrative minion — to come and tell me about the meeting in the first place.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, matching her brisk tone. “I have an appointment at ten hundred hours. It’s probably under the name Astrid.”  
  
The tiniest of frowns creased her brow, making my heart beat just a little faster.  
  
“I have you down for nine forty-five,” she said.  
  
What?  
  
I blinked stupidly at her, completely nonplussed. Had I gotten it wrong? But… No. No, I hadn’t. Mr Minion had definitely said ten. I was certain of it.  
  
“Perhaps there was a miscommunication, Ma’am?” I asked carefully, not wanting to sound like I was making excuses.  
  
“Perhaps,” she said, but then the the small frown turned into an equally small, brief smile. “In any event, as it’s only…” Her gaze flicked to her computer screen and back to me. “Nine thirty now, it’s hardly a problem.”  
  
Oh. Right. I relaxed a little, feeling like an idiot. I’d almost (that is to say, actually) started panicking for nothing.  
  
“Please take a seat over there, and Director Piggot will see you shortly.” She indicated a row of four chairs arranged along one wall.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said.  
  
“Ms Danvers is fine,” she said. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t seem annoyed, either, so I relaxed a little more.  
  
And then I got a good look at the chairs.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
What was **wrong** with these people? Were all the waiting areas in this building populated by these goddamn crimes against seating? Seriously!  
  
What the actual fuck?  
  
Cursing internally, and at some length, I sat down.  
  
Yep, just as uncomfortable as I remembered. I was actually glad about the mix-up with the meeting time. Fifteen minutes on this monstrosity was going to be bad enough. I dreaded to think what half an hour would have been like. In hindsight, perhaps I had set off just a little bit sooner than I’d needed to. But given how byzantine the minion’s directions had been, I was glad I’d allowed myself some extra time to get here.  
  
Actually, byzantine was an understatement. Talk about a scenic route! Well, not that it was particularly scenic, involving as it did a series of almost identical-looking corridors. But it certainly was convoluted. And very badly written, both in terms of unclear wording **and** appalling handwriting. If it wasn’t for my sense of direction — and the fact that I knew where I was in the building at all times (something I didn’t think I was ever going to get tired of; seriously, how cool was that?) — I had a horrible feeling I would have gotten hopelessly lost. As it was, I abandoned the directions halfway through, went down to the security desk — having realised that I was pretty much directly above it — and asked the guards there if they could tell me the best way to get to the director’s office.  
  
Their directions made **much** more sense.  
  
(I was so relieved that the asshole guard from yesterday hadn’t been on duty. He would have undoubtedly taken the opportunity to mock me for failing to follow instructions. Or something.)  
  
(Bastard.)  
  
Shit. If I **hadn’t** been so over-cautious, then those seriously shitty instructions, in combination with mix-up over the time, would probably have made me late for my meeting. Just **thinking** about that possibility made my heart pound. Somehow, I doubted that Director Piggot had much of a tolerance for tardiness. But at least I could reassure myself that it hadn’t happened. I’d still gotten here in plenty of time after all.  
  
I wasn’t late.  
  
It had all worked out fine.  
  
Except…  
  
Except I couldn’t help wondering: was this a test of some kind? Or even… sabotage? Did someone want to make sure I got in trouble with the director on my second day as a Ward? No, that had to be paranoia talking. The most likely explanation was simple incompetence, after all. Maybe Mr Minion just had a bad memory, awful handwriting and a superlatively shitty sense of direction.  
  
(And if that son of a bitch’s fuck ups **had** made me late and had gotten me disciplined, then by God I would have had **words** with him. Hell, I was half-tempted to track him down anyway and make it clear to him just how very fucking incompetent he was.)  
  
(But… no. No, I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.)  
  
(No matter how much I really wanted to.)  
  
Anyway, it didn’t matter. I was here now, so there was no point in worrying about it. Keeping that thought in mind, I tried to push aside the vague sense of mingled anger and unease. Instead, I focused my attention on the work I’d brought to keep me occupied while I waited to see the director.  
  
I was mostly successful.  
  
And I barely cursed these rotten bastard so-called ‘chairs’ at all.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Despite the less than comfortable seating, fifteen minutes passed surprisingly quickly. It seemed like almost no time at all until Ms Danvers looked up at me and said:  
  
“Director Piggot will see you now.”  
  
“Thank you, Ms Danvers,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as nervous as I suddenly felt. I stood up (only briefly holding my breath as various aches and pains reminded me of their presence) and stuffed my schoolwork back in my bag. Quickly checking to make sure I was still presentable, I did my level best to stride across the room as if my heart **wasn’t** thundering practically loud enough for the whole damn building to hear, and knocked at the door to the director’s office.  
  
“Enter,” came a brusque female voice from inside.  
  
I took a deep breath and did as I was ordered.  
  
On first glance, Director Piggot was… not what I’d (hoped for) expected. As my gaze fell on the somewhat obese blonde woman sitting behind the desk, I couldn’t help a pang of something not unlike disappointment. But then I met her gaze, and found myself reconsidering my initial impression. Despite her bulk, there was steel in her eyes and, unless I missed my guess, weight or not, she held herself like a soldier.  
  
Anyway, it didn’t matter what she looked like. She was the director of the Brockton Bay branch of the PRT, and in ultimate command of the Brockton Bay Wards. That meant she deserved my respect.  
  
I closed the door and moved to stand to attention in front of her desk.  
  
“Good morning, Ma’am,” I said. “Astrid Carver, reporting as ordered.”  
  
I knew she had access to my full and un-redacted file, including my name, so I figured I might as well introduce myself properly. It actually felt kind of good to have a new name; not to be a Berklow any longer.  
  
(I couldn’t help a pang of loss at the thought that I no longer shared a name with Dad and Lance.)  
  
I sounded kind of stiff, but that was probably better than being too informal. Or sounding nervous.  
  
Director Piggot studied me for what felt like an eternity. I really wanted to shift restlessly under the scrutiny, but I squashed the feeling without any real difficulty. Standing to attention while being visually vivisected was something I was not unused to. (Even though a part of me was worried that any moment now, mask or no mask, she was going to realise who I really was.)  
  
“Are you being sarcastic?” she asked, and although her tone **seemed** mild, I could see the way her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the line of her jaw tensing noticeably even with the softness of her flesh. I felt my own eyes widen.  
  
“No, Ma’am,” I said, horrified. “Not at all.”  
  
Had I **sounded** sarcastic? I didn’t think so. Why would she even think that? Should I apologise?  
  
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally, continuing to scrutinise me.  
  
I held position, barely daring to breathe. So much for her liking me. Murphy couldn’t have gotten **that** more wrong if he’d tried. Apparently I’d made a really fucking terrible first impression. Less than a handful of words spoken, and I’d already pissed her off. That had to be some kind of record. Dismally, I wondered if anyone had ever been kicked out of the Wards before, let alone less than a week after joining. Fuck. How long was the director going to study me silently? I was **really** starting to feel agitated. Which meant… Shit. Suddenly nervous for whole other reasons, I checked, double-checked and triple-checked that my power was firmly leashed and under my control.  
  
After what felt like a fucking **lifetime** , Director Piggot finally spoke again.  
  
“At ease,” she said sharply.  
  
I moved into a rest position almost before I even processed what she’d said.  
  
(Fuck, it felt good to stand down. I hadn’t even realised just how tense I’d been until I wasn’t any more.)  
  
“Ma’am,” I acknowledged, cautiously. There was clear curiosity in her gaze now. I hoped that was a good sign. At least it wasn’t annoyance, right?  
  
“Army brat?” she asked.  
  
I hesitated briefly, and then nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” I said quietly. “My father was a soldier.” It wasn’t technically a lie. Dad **had** been a soldier, if not quite the kind she probably meant. Mom too, for that matter, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to talk about **her** anytime ever.  
  
(Well, I supposed my mother been quite a bit more than just a soldier. That was why Dad had always had such high expectations of me. Thought I was going to follow in her fucking footsteps.)  
  
(I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less.)  
  
The director nodded and, to my surprise — and relief — actually smiled, if only briefly; a mere twitch of the lips. “Welcome to the Wards, Miss Carver,” she said.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I replied, daring to hope that maybe things were back on track after that initial, incomprehensible hiccup. (That she realised I hadn’t intended any disrespect.)  
  
“What does that mean to you?” The question surprised me. It took me a moment to figure out what she probably meant.  
  
“Being a Ward, Ma’am?” I asked cautiously, wanting to make sure I understood what she was asking.  
  
“Yes,” she said. “What are your expectations for the programme?”  
  
I carefully considered my response. It was obviously a trick question; a test. I knew what the Wards **did**. I also knew what they were allegedly supposed to do. What kind answer was the director looking for: a truthful, practical one that showed I was prepared to do what needed to be done? Or one that matched the party line, showing I knew how to keep up appearances?  
  
I decided to hedge my bets a little.  
  
“I expect to learn how to use my power to protect civilians, Ma’am.”  
  
There. That was close enough to what I really thought that it hopefully wouldn’t read as a lie.  
  
Both Gallant and Ms Grant had stressed that the programme wasn’t supposed to be about fighting, but that was clearly untrue. The PRT, the Protectorate and the Wards fought the other gangs; everybody knew that. Maybe the Wards didn’t get into as many skirmishes as the Protectorate, but they still fought. They protected their territory and their reputation, the same as the other gangs. They looked out for their own, also like the other gangs. If they wanted to frame what they did as some noble cause, well, didn’t most people? That fucker Kaiser had his whole white supremacy thing. Lung talked about uniting Brockton Bay’s Asian population. The Merchants… Actually, I wasn’t sure they really had a cause beyond selling drugs and getting high, but whatever. I guessed some people could see doing whatever the fuck they wanted and fucking up anybody who got in their way as a cause. Coil’s deal, according to Dad, was order. Which really meant power, but of course he’d frame it in terms of ‘the greater good.’ Which was my point: people wanted to believe their actions served some glorious purpose.  
  
(Dad had done a couple of jobs for Coil, here and there — just Dad, not any of his men — and said he was someone to keep an eye on. It sounded like he respected the guy, although the jury was still out over whether or not he would end up as an ally or just another target.)  
  
Anyway, hopefully my answer was soft enough to be acceptable, while still making it clear that I was willing and able to go out in the field and do my part.  
  
(I was a little surprised to realise that part of me kind of wanted what I’d said to be true. **Really** true, not just in the ‘from a certain point of view’ sense.)  
  
(Fuck. When the hell did I get so naive?)  
  
(Dad would beat me black and blue if he knew.)  
  
Director Piggot gave me a curious look.  
  
“That’s a good answer,” she said.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am.” I stood a little straighter, relieved that I hadn’t managed to put my foot in my mouth again.  
  
“Despite what some people seem to think, the purpose of the superhero teams isn’t simply to beat up villains. It’s to stop people from being hurt. Or worse.” She smiled thinly, but there was a cynical glint in her eyes. “Of course,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Ideally, any actual fighting should fall to the Protectorate, rather than the Wards.”  
  
“Understood, Ma’am,” I said quietly.  
  
Yeah, I understood alright. The same way I understood why Gallant and Ms Grant had tried to tell me that they didn’t use corporal punishment here (that there wasn’t a basement), no matter how nonsensical that clearly was. There were forms to be observed; appearances to be maintained. Outsiders didn’t understand. They would just try to interfere and then things would get… messy. That was why Dad forbade Lance and me from letting anyone outside the house know about the basement, or the training, or any of it. It was why we weren’t allowed to leave visible marks when we sparred, or fought.  
  
(’The government wants to keep the people soft and weak. That’s why they want to control the way a man raises his own fucking kids. It’s why those pussies at your school would piss and moan and bleat about me taking a firm hand with you when I have to. Their liberal masters have given them their orders, and that means they’re going to try to make sure that you grow up to be like them: weak. So you’ll keep those marks covered up if you know what’s good for you. Don’t give those fuckers an excuse to interfere in our private business.’)  
  
“Good,” she said, nodding. “There are also minor PR duties — visits to local schools, appearances at events, things like that. But someone from the PR department will go over those in more detail with you.”  
  
I got the sense that she didn’t think highly of that aspect of the job. That very definitely made two of us.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, trying not to sound glum.  
  
Fuck. Public speaking — or, in fact, speaking of any kind — was really not one of my strengths.  
  
“Finally, you’ll be expected to develop and maintain your job-relevant skills, including your powers. There will be scheduled training sessions, but the individual nature of powers means that a large portion of your development will, of necessity, be self-directed.” A little dryly, she added: “I trust that this won’t be a problem?”  
  
“No, Ma’am,” I said eagerly. “I already have a training regimen for fitness and combat skills, and I’ve started working on improving my ability with my power.”  
  
“Good,” she said, nodding with what looked like approval before her features took on a stern cast. “I assume it’s been explained that you’re expected to keep up with your schoolwork alongside your duties as a Ward. I cannot stress how important this is. The Wards programme is under a great deal of scrutiny, and the Youth Guard will not hesitate to step in if they feel that a Ward’s education is suffering due to their participation.”  
  
Her voice went slightly flat when she talked about the Youth Guard. I guessed Ms Grant hadn’t been exaggerating about her somewhat controversial relationship with the PRT.  
  
“We do have tutors available to offer assistance if you do run into difficulties,” the director continued. “But I’m afraid it’s going to take a certain amount of hard work to balance your schooling with the responsibilities of being a Ward.”  
  
She looked at me expectantly.  
  
“I understand, Ma’am,” I said, but that didn’t seem like an adequate response, so I took a moment to organise my thoughts and then continued. “But I’m used to working hard. My father has always encouraged me to maintain high academic standards as well as keeping up with my physical training. I intend to continue with that to the best of my ability.” I tried not to think about his particular brand of motivation. (I tried not to worry about what would happen if my grades slipped.) I cast about for a way to let her know that I wasn’t going to slack off, eventually settling on: “I’m highly motivated, Ma’am.”  
  
“I can see that,” she murmured, her expression inscrutable. She gave me another of those brief smiles; there and gone again almost before it registered. “I think you’re going to do well here, Miss Carver.”  
  
“I hope so, Ma’am,” I replied, hoping that my sudden trepidation didn’t show.  
  
I really, really hoped I didn’t fuck this up.  
  
“Now,” Director Piggot said briskly. “As you’re currently between schools, I think it makes sense to try to fit as much of the training, testing and orientation as we can into the next couple of weeks. It will mean a fairly full schedule, but I doubt it’ll be anything you can’t handle. Is that acceptable to you?”  
  
She was asking me? That was… unexpected.  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. Honestly, I would be glad to have something to do. I only had so much schoolwork with me, and while I was perfectly capable of coming up with useful ways to occupy myself, I did appreciate having something to structure my days around. I did have one concern, though. I hesitated for a moment, unsure if I should bring it up now or wait until the director had finished, and then made up my mind. “May I ask a question?”  
  
Director Piggot gave me the most peculiar look. (I hoped I hadn’t offended her somehow.) After a moment, she nodded.  
  
“Feel free to ask questions at any point,” she said.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. “Do you know how long it will be until I start at Arcadia? I’ve already missed one week of school, and I would prefer not to miss too much more.”  
  
“From past experience, it’s likely to be between two and three weeks, depending on transfer schedules and how long it takes Winslow to send through your transcript.”  
  
I couldn’t imagine Winslow being particularly efficient in that regard, so almost certainly closer to three weeks than two.  
  
Well, shit.  
  
“Would it be possible for me work with the tutors in the interim, Ma’am?” I asked. I didn’t think I needed to explain that I was concerned about falling behind.  
  
“You’ll be scheduled for a basic skills assessment either this week or early next week,” she said. “That will help them to identify any problem areas, following which they’ll work with you to put together a suitable study plan.”  
  
That wasn’t quite the question I’d asked, but it was better than nothing. Maybe I would be able to contact one of the tutors myself to ask what I could usefully be doing. Or maybe I could ask one of the other Wards about Arcadia’s curriculum. Most of us seemed to be around the same age — surely at least one of them must be in the same year as me.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said, regardless.  
  
She gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement.  
  
“Your power evaluation will be on Monday, and will take place at the central testing facility for this region. The whole day has been set aside, but it may not take that long. Or it may take longer. There’s often no way to predict these things.”  
  
“I understand, Ma’am.” I frowned a little. “The testing doesn’t take place on site? Or in the Protectorate HQ?”  
  
I would have assumed at least one of those would have some kind of powers testing facility; most likely the Protectorate HQ.  
  
“Recruitment doesn’t happen often enough to make it worthwhile to have specialists at every site,” Director Piggot said dryly. “Given the sheer variation in parahuman powers, it is a tricky and highly specialised field of study. Simply put, there aren’t enough qualified personnel to go around. Plus, there are the site requirements to consider. It’s just more efficient to have a central testing facility.”  
  
That made sense, I supposed.  
  
“The one for this region is located in upstate New York,” the director continued. “You’ll be taken up there either Sunday night or first thing on Monday morning, depending on the availability of transport.” Upstate New York? That was one hell of a drive. Unless we were going to fly. “You’ll likely end up staying there for a day or two. Following your assessment, you’ll work with the powers specialists and the PR department to figure out how best to use your abilities in the field, and also to come up with your name and costume.”  
  
Armour. That was what I wanted. Metal armour. All-encompassing metal armour. I hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. I guessed I would be discussing that with the person from PR, though. All I said aloud was:  
  
“I see, Ma’am.”  
  
I was a little nervous about the testing. I was more nervous about working with PR. I wondered if I would be the only one at the testing facility, or if there would be other capes there.  
  
Director Piggot sat up a little straighter in her chair, fixing me with a level stare. (I went still, wondering if I’d said or done something amiss.)  
  
“I want to stress how important it is that you perform to the best of your ability during the powers evaluation,” she said sternly. “It is vital that we have an accurate assessment of what you can do so we can know how best to deploy you in the field. We also need to know if your power use is likely to have any unintended effects. It’s far better to find these things out in the relatively controlled environment of the testing facility than out in the field. In short, hiding the full range of your abilities could ultimately put yourself, your team mates and, last but most definitely not least, civilians at risk. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, feeling conflicted.  
  
It wasn’t that I was **planning** on hiding anything. Not specifically. But I felt a little uncomfortable (okay, more than a little uncomfortable) at the thought of revealing everything I could do. My instincts — my training — said to keep something back, just in case.  
  
(Just in case things went south. Just in case I had to get out of here. Just in case I had to fight them.)  
  
But this was a direct order.  
  
Shit.  
  
I guessed I’d just have to play it by ear.  
  
The director studied me for a long moment — trying to figure out if I was lying, no doubt — but eventually nodded.  
  
“Good,” she said, shortly. She looked me over again and frowned. “I was going to put you down for a combat aptitude assessment this afternoon, but I think that would be better off waiting until next week.”  
  
What? Why? Didn’t she think I was strong enough? Had someone said something? Had **Aegis** said something? Did I really seem so pathetic? I tried to shove down the mix of panic and anger that bubbled up inside me, forcing my voice to remain level and controlled.  
  
“May I ask why, Ma’am?”  
  
She leaned back in her chair, her frown deepening. (I hoped I hadn’t made her angry by questioning her. She had **said** I could ask questions, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.)  
  
“You’re injured,” she said, bluntly.  
  
“Not seriously, Ma’am,” I replied crisply.  
  
She regarded me impassively for a moment or two, and then reached for her computer mouse, clicking a couple of times and then scanning over whatever was displayed on her screen. Unfortunately, it wasn’t visible from where I was standing. When she was done, she returned her attention to me.  
  
“I have your medical report here.” Strangely, she said that like it was somehow a counterpoint to my words.  
  
“I don’t believe there should be anything in there that contradicts my statement, Ma’am. It’s just surface damage; there’s nothing incapacitating.” I held her gaze as I spoke, hoping that she’d see I was sincere. (What had the doctor even written in that report, anyway? Had she exaggerated my injuries somehow? Made them seem worse than they were? Why was everyone here so fucking squeamish?) I tried to keep my voice controlled, but I couldn’t keep all of my frustration from leaking through as I added: “I can still fight, Ma’am.”  
  
I could not for the life of me figure out what was going through the director’s mind as she studied me. Eventually, she sighed deeply and said:  
  
“Just because you **can** , doesn’t necessarily mean that you should.” Frowning, I opened my mouth to say, again, that I was perfectly functional right now, but she hadn’t finished speaking. “Sit down, Miss Carver.”  
  
I would have said that I was fine standing, but that had the clear cadence of an order. I was seated in the chair she gestured towards almost before the words were out of her mouth.  
  
(It was something of a relief to sit, even if the chair wasn’t as comfortable as the ones in Ms Grant’s office. Still, at least it wasn’t as uncomfortable as the seats in Ms Danvers’ office.)  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said automatically.  
  
“This isn’t a slight against you,” she said sternly. “I don’t doubt your willingness, nor your determination. But I will not have you injuring yourself further. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. “But I’m used to pushing myself hard, and I know my limits. I have no intention of damaging myself.”  
  
I hoped the director didn’t think I was arguing with her. But I couldn’t let her think that I was some stupid child who didn’t know the first thing about making sure I stayed functional enough to fight.  
  
(I carefully didn’t think about the sparring match with Shadow Stalker, and how it hadn’t exactly been sensible of me to push so hard while I was still recovering from hell week. Anyway, on balance, the understanding I’d reached with Shadow Stalker was more than worth the few extra bruises she’d given me. And I wasn’t so damaged that I couldn’t fight if I had to. What did it matter if I was a little sore? I’d survived far worse.)  
  
“The combat aptitude assessment will wait,” Director Piggot said, with an air of finality. She smiled thinly. “Trust me, there will be more than enough to occupy your time without it.” The smile became a frown, her voice implacable as she continued to speak. “I won’t forbid you from continuing your usual exercise routine, but I do expect you to be careful. And if you do happen to push past your limits and ‘damage’ yourself, you are to seek appropriate medical attention right away. Is that understood?”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, trying to let neither my relief (I didn’t know what I would have done if she’d forbidden me from exercising) nor my annoyance (I wasn’t a fucking idiot!) show in my voice.  
  
I thought I succeeded on both counts.  
  
“Good,” she said shortly. “And while we’re on the subject of fitness for duty, you will be scheduled for a psychological assessment as soon as one of the PRT counsellors is available to meet with you.” I frowned a little despite myself. A counsellor? Someone who would try to get inside my head and figure out what made me tick? (Someone who would try to find out all my secrets.) I didn’t like that idea at all. I wondered if there was any way around it. “That is non-negotiable,” Director Piggot said sharply, as if she could read my mind. “And I expect you to co-operate with your assigned counsellor.”  
  
I blinked at her as she gave me an expectant look.  
  
“I’m not certain what you mean, Ma’am,” I ventured, when nothing better came to mind.  
  
Her gaze sharpened.  
  
“I mean,” she said, the hardness of her voice making it clear that this was another non-negotiable point. “That you are to answer their questions to the best of your ability. No sitting there in stubborn silence, or evading, or otherwise being uncooperative. Does that clarify things for you?”  
  
(‘Next time, you do as you’re fucking told, when I fucking tell you. It’s that fucking simple, girl. If you’d obeyed me in the first fucking place, then I wouldn’t have to discipline you now. Is that clear enough for you? Do I need to explain it to you again?’)  
  
I hesitated for the barest moment.  
  
(To the best of my ability? Fine. To the best of my ability so long as I could keep my secrets. **That** wasn’t negotiable for me. But it certainly wasn’t a distinction I was planning on getting into here. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind and focused on the part I could agree to without reservation.)  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, trying to sound sincere. (Trying to make myself believe my words, within the limits I’d set myself.) Director Piggot frowned at me for a moment, and I met her gaze as levelly and guilelessly as I could.  
  
“Good,” she said, a beat later. Sounding almost reluctant, she added: “The counsellor may decide to schedule further sessions with you, depending on how the assessment goes. If that is the case, I expect you to continue to cooperate with them.”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, hoping fervently that the assessment would go well, that I’d be cleared for duty, and that the counsellor wouldn’t schedule any more sessions with me. I didn’t need any fucking **counselling**. I wasn’t a goddamn **victim** , no matter what everyone and their dog seemed to think about me.  
  
I wasn’t sure if the fact that I’d deliberately let them think that made it better or worse.  
  
“Right. Now that’s out of the way, let’s move onto something more pleasant.”  
  
I kind of got the sense that Director Piggot was as reluctant to talk about counselling as I was to have any. Maybe that meant, if the counsellor **did** schedule more sessions with me, I might actually have a chance of persuading the director to intervene on my behalf. Maybe she could tell them that I was perfectly fit for duty and **make** them clear me. There had to be a way, surely. But I guessed there was no point in worrying about it now. Why borrow trouble when I already had plenty to fret about?  
  
Director Piggot opened one of her desk drawers and pulled out a phone. A smartphone, in fact.  
  
“Every member of the Wards is issued with one of these,” she said. “This is for you.” She handed it over, and I accepted it automatically. Just as automatically, I sent my power through it, stilling as I found more than I’d been expecting.  
  
“Is this tinkertech, Ma’am?” I blurted out in place of the thanks I’d been intending to voice.  
  
She gave me a curious look.  
  
“Yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“It’s so… complex,” I muttered, only belatedly remembering to add: “Ma’am.”  
  
It was much more complex than the ordinary phones I’d studied previously. How much of that was due to the fact that it was a smartphone? And how much was because it was tinkertech? I wasn’t sure. I tried to map it out, but I couldn’t bring all of it into focus; could barely even begin to guess at what some parts did. And then I got distracted by the battery. (A few tweaks here and there, and I was pretty sure I could turn it into a bomb; much more potent than the one I’d made by accident out at the cabin.) But then…  
  
Shit!  
  
I was zoning out in the middle of a conversation with the director!  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck!  
  
I tried to drag some of my attention back from this **beautiful** enigma in my hand and focused on Director Piggot.  
  
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I intended no disrespect. I just got a little distracted by my power. It… happens sometimes when I touch particularly complicated or large things. I’ll try not to let it happen again.” Shit. Did it sound like I was making excuses? “Thank you for the phone, Ma’am.”  
  
Fuck. I hoped I hadn’t pissed her off.  
  
(I hoped she wasn’t going to have me disciplined for disrespect. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as disobedience, but it was still pretty fucking bad. I should have been focused. I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted. I’d fucked up.)  
  
(Why did I keep fucking up?)  
  
“Can you sense the whole structure just by touching it?” The director’s voice was thoughtful, rather than angry, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  
  
“Not all of it, Ma’am,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as uncertain as I felt. “I’ve been practicing, though, and I am getting better.”  
  
“I see,” she said. Somewhat dryly, she added: “Well, please try not to break your phone while ‘practicing’.”  
  
(Did that mean she wasn’t going to punish me for zoning out?)  
  
“I’ll be careful, Ma’am,” I assured her, resisting the urge to sink into my power again.  
  
I couldn’t quite believe I had my own tinkertech smartphone. How cool was that? Answer: very. I was very definitely looking forward to playing around with that, both in the usual way and with my power.  
  
“Good.” She nodded. “Now, there are a few more things we need to go over…”  
  
In a relatively short space of time, I had a login for the PRT computer network, an e-mail address, a list of useful contacts and a partial, provisional schedule for the next couple of weeks. It was something of a relief to finally have an idea of what my immediate future looked like. I really hadn’t liked feeling that I was in limbo. I’d been starting to feel a little bit cast adrift. And at least it would be easier for people to contact me now.  
  
(No more fucking hand-scrawled directions and incorrect fucking meeting times.)  
  
(Not that I was bitter or anything.)  
  
(Not that I was still half-wondering if it had been malice, rather than incompetence.)  
  
“I think that’s just about everything,” Director Piggot said. She fixed me with a considering look. “Do you have any questions?”  
  
I did, as it happened, but I hesitated, not certain whether or not to ask. But then… If not now, then when? And if anyone could answer this particular question, then surely it would be the director…  
  
“Just one, Ma’am,” I said quietly. “I’m a little unclear on the chain of command for the Wards. Would it be possible for you to clarify it?”  
  
“I can do that,” the director said, and I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure, but I thought she seemed a little bit… amused? I wasn’t sure why. I thought that was a perfectly valid question. Why wouldn’t I want to know whose orders I should follow? “In the first instance, follow your team leader’s directives. If Aegis isn’t around, then you’re expected to defer to senior team mates.” At the moment, I guessed that was all of them. “Myself, Deputy Director Renick and the PRT duty officers can issue orders directly to the Wards as a whole, although usually we’ll brief Aegis, and he’ll brief the rest of you. We may also give orders to individual Wards, but that tends to be more when no one else from the team is around. Does that help to clear up any confusion?”  
  
“It does, Ma’am, thank you.” It certainly sounded much more straightforward than I’d expected, given what Dean had said. But there was one thing she hadn’t mentioned… I took a moment to compose my thoughts, and then continued, cautiously. “But I was given to understand that Protectorate members could sometimes issue directives while in the field. Is that not the case?”  
  
Director Piggot’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and I felt my pulse pick up a little.  
  
“The Protectorate has no official command authority over the Wards,” she informed me in a clipped voice. “However, as a courtesy, and in recognition of their experience, Wards are informally expected to follow their lead in the field, especially during joint operations. But it isn’t a hard and fast rule.”  
  
“I see, Ma’am,” I muttered, my heart sinking a little. Shit. That had ‘potential clusterfuck’ written all over it, especially in light of what Ms Grant had said about command authority being transferred from the Protectorate to the PRT. I couldn’t help wondering if there was any lingering ill-feeling over the move.  
  
(I wondered dismally how I could possibly avoid pissing off both sides if I ended up having to make my way across that particular political minefield.)  
  
The director studied me thoughtfully.  
  
“Do you have concerns, Miss Carver?”  
  
“Not really, Ma’am,” I hedged. “I just prefer things to be neat, that’s all. I like to know exactly where I stand.”  
  
She didn’t smile, but there still seemed to be something like amusement in her eyes as she replied.  
  
“Just follow the chain of command as best as you can, and use your judgement for situations that fall outside it. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”  
  
I really, really hoped so.  
  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said quietly.  
  
“In any event,” she continued. “One of the courses you’ll be taking covers the internal hierarchy of the PRT and Protectorate, and how they connect to each other. Hopefully that will clear up any further questions you may have.  
  
I perked up a little at that.  
  
“That’s good to know, Ma’am,” I said. “Thank you.”  
  
Director Piggot glanced over at her computer screen. “I have another meeting shortly. I believe we’ve covered everything. Unless you have any more questions?”  
  
I thought for a moment. I had a tonne of questions, but they were probably things I could figure out for myself, and I really didn’t want to take up any more of the director’s valuable time.  
  
“No, Ma’am.”  
  
“Very well, then.” A ghost of a smile flitted over her face, and then she sat up straighter in her chair, fixing me with a level gaze as she barked: “Dismissed.”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

As I headed back down to the Wards HQ, I found myself stepping a little lighter, walking a little taller, than I had before my meeting with Director Piggot. Overall, despite the less than promising start, I thought it hadn’t actually gone badly at all. Aside from the odd moment of confusion here and there, I kind of felt like I knew where I stood with her. And, unlike Aegis, and Captain Cavendish, she actually acted the way I expected a commander to act.  
  
(It was something of a relief to find someone in a position of authority who was actually willing to give orders and to observe the proper forms.)  
  
The interaction felt… familiar. Comfortable, almost.  
  
Apparently, Shadow Stalker wasn’t the only normal person in this place.


	24. Agoraphobia 2.11

The first thing I did when I got back downstairs was to spend a little time studying my new smartphone. I dug out my old phone to compare the two and… yeah. They weren’t even in the same ballpark as far as complexity went.  
  
(My old phone was missing its battery again and I had no intention of putting it back in. What was the point? The only people who were likely to contact me were Dad and Lance, and I really had no interest in what either of them might have to say to me.)  
  
(Shit. Now I was thinking about that voicemail message again.)  
  
(If Dad ever got his hands on me, I was so very fucked.)  
  
(Everything he’d done to me before would seem like a walk in the park compared to how he’d discipline me for this infraction. These infractions, rather. Dad… was really not the forgiving type.)  
  
(I’d **really** have to make sure he never got his fucking hands on me.)  
  
(Somehow.)  
  
I couldn’t point to any particular part and say ‘yes, this is tinkertech,’ but maybe that was something I’d be able to figure out with practice. I wondered if I’d be able to get my hands on a non-tinkertech smartphone, for reference…  
  
I pulled out my lab book and jotted down a few notes on my observations, together with a couple of ideas for future experiments. I would definitely have to ask Kid Win if I could take a look at one of his devices. Maybe something broken, or something he’d abandoned, just in case. I didn’t want to risk breaking anything important. And, speaking of breaking things… I hesitated a moment, and then jotted down my observations about turning the phone battery into a bomb. It was just chemical reactions; forming and dissolving bonds. It made sense that I’d be able to do something like that, at least in theory. And it wasn’t like I hadn’t been trained to think of ways to use even seemingly innocuous objects as weapons. (I’d sure as shit never look at a towel the same way again. Or a pen.) It was just… I didn’t know why I found it disturbing. I was obviously just being stupid. My power gave me more options now, that was all.  
  
I supposed I now had a template for turning a phone into a fucking explosive device. Not a big one, maybe, but…  
  
Well, whatever. I’d file it under ‘just in case.’ Better to know it and not need it, than to need it and be royally fucked when I couldn’t make it happen.  
  
While I was on the subject of making things explode, though: I wondered if I could get hold of some aluminium. Normally, I’d need an oxidising agent as well, but I had a feeling that I could use my power to get around that. I already knew I could turn a solid lump of stuff into molecular dust. High surface area to volume ratio meant greater exposure to oxygen. Add a spark, and boom: instant flash powder.  
  
Could be a useful trick if ever I needed a distraction. Assuming I could do pull it off without blinding myself, or setting myself on fire, or anything unpleasant like that. Definitely something I’d want to practice first, preferably somewhere relatively non-flammable. I’d have to start small. Oh, and I’d want safety goggles. Preferably tinted ones. Actually, it was probably a good idea in general to request some protective gear. So many of the experiments I was considering involved potentially dangerous reactions, and I really didn’t want to damage myself.  
  
I winced a little, remembering the way that phone had ‘violently discorporated’ back at the cabin. Okay, it hadn’t been a particularly large explosion, but it didn’t have to be. I was just glad that my power made removing slivers of plastic from my skin a fairly trivial exercise.  
  
Yep, I definitely wanted safety gear. Maybe there was some in the workshop.  
  
Okay. Enough speculation and hypothesising for now. Many of my experiments would have to wait until I could get my hands on the relevant substances, so looking into acquiring those was a first step. I spent a moment or two wondering who I could ask, and then mentally kicked myself. Kid Win was a tinker: he must have to request materials for his projects. I could ask him what the procedure was. I made a mental note to do just that.  
  
In the meantime, though, I had other things to be getting on with.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The good thing — well, one of the many good things — about being able to log into the PRT network was that I finally had a way of finding out what was going on out in the world beyond the walls. I’d already spent a week more or less cut off from everything (there was no computer or TV out at the cabin, and the radio reception was very hit and miss), and I’d been stuck in the PRT building without outside contact practically since I’d gotten back to what I would charitably call ‘civilisation.’  
  
Honestly, I was going more than a little stir crazy.  
  
It wasn’t even just the isolation. I was kind of used to that. Sometimes, I even found a sort of comfort in being alone while surrounded by people. But, outside of being confined to the house (or the basement) as a punishment (or as part of an attempt to make me trigger), this was probably the longest I’d spent without going outside even once.  
  
I was starting to miss fresh air and sunlight.  
  
Even though my power told me the walls were exactly where they were supposed to be, I could almost feel them closing in.  
  
I guessed I **could** actually go out if I wanted to. No one had told me I wasn’t allowed to leave the building. I was a Ward, not a prisoner, at least as far as I knew. (And if that wasn’t true, well, it was probably better to know sooner, rather than later. Before they knew exactly what I was capable of.) Maybe I’d go out for a run later. There was supposed to be a park near here. Or I could just have a bit of a wander around; get to know the area a little. I’d never really been to this part of town before, unsurprisingly. I could even take the opportunity to test whether or not roads counted as objects to my power.  
  
Anyway, it would be nice to get some fresh air.  
  
(I pretended I didn’t notice the way my heart rate sped up and my chest got tight at even the thought of going outside.)  
  
(I pretended that last night hadn’t been filled with nightmare after nightmare of turning a corner and coming face to face with Dad; of feeling him wrap his hand around my throat and start to squeeze.)  
  
(I completely failed to pretend I wasn’t terrified of what he’d do if he caught me.)  
  
Maybe I’d go out later. There were things I wanted to do right now, after all. Anyway, it was still fairly early in the day — not even much past eleven — so there’d be plenty of time to go out later.  
  
Yes. Later.  
  
And, in the meanwhile: what exactly had gone down between the PRT and the Empire last night?  
  
I checked the usual sites, but came up with a whole lot of nothing. Well, not quite nothing. Everyone certainly agreed that **something** had happened. There’d been a fight involving known Empire capes, and the PRT. Some minor property damage. Some bodies on the ground; unclear whether dead or merely severely injured. Actually… quite a few bodies. Definitely some PRT fatalities — estimates ranging from ‘one or two’ to ‘a fuck of a lot,’ but based on the mood in the canteen this morning I would peg it closer to the lower end than the higher.  
  
(I’d seen the aftermath of catastrophic losses. Only once, but the memory had stuck with me. The atmosphere this morning hadn’t felt like that.)  
  
But pretty much all the halfway credible accounts I could find agreed on one thing: the majority of the casualties had been civilians. And there was some suggestion that many, if not most, of those had been… people of colour.  
  
Which made sense, given fucking **nazis**.  
  
Most official news sources — at least, the ones that had some pretensions of reputability — were in a holding pattern pending either hard facts, or an official statement from the PRT other than ‘no comment.’ Everyone else was speculating wildly and with gay abandon. I made an attempt to sort the wheat from the chaff, trying to fit the things I knew for sure into some kind of logical framework.  
  
Okay. So.  
  
Point the first, the PRT got wind of something going down, and went in to try to stop it. Point the second, they did not go in with overwhelming force, and they had only minimal support from the Protectorate. Only Assault and Battery were consistently placed on scene at the start of the engagement. Which didn’t mean that there hadn’t been others, but those two appeared in pretty much every report I thought worthwhile. Other capes may or may not have joined in later, but accounts were too contradictory to be sure. Point the third, whatever the PRT had been expecting, they got way more than they bargained for. Bad intel, incompetence or political shenanigans? Some combination of all three? Either way, no wonder Seraph and Jinx had been royally pissed off.  
  
I was kind of pissed off on their behalf.  
  
Point the fourth, the engagement had apparently lasted for some time. Again, accounts varied, but I would wager it had been closer to hours than minutes. Which was a long fucking time to be in a fight. The PRT had likely called in more personnel when things started to go sideways. Possibly that was why and when Captain Cavendish had come in, despite being off-duty.  
  
Point the fifth, the PRT had not emerged victorious.  
  
Basically, all the evidence pointed to a clusterfuck.   
  
Maybe not a clusterfuck of epic proportions, but a clusterfuck nonetheless.  
  
Which undoubtedly meant that an epidemic of ass-covering and finger-pointing would follow in its wake.  
  
I leaned back in my chair, bit back a yelp, sat up straight again and stared unseeing at the screen, going over the facts of the matter in my mind again.  
  
Something about this thing made me feel uneasy. This was… big. Showy. And, if the accounts were to be believed, involved significant numbers of civilian casualties.  
  
And it felt… off.  
  
In more ways than the obvious.  
  
Not that the Empire didn’t kill people. Not that they weren’t sick, evil fucks. Not that they didn’t make examples of people, or commit atrocities to send a fucking message. But they didn’t usually do it on this kind of scale. And they didn’t, as a rule, engage the PRT in open warfare. This… This was a statement.  
  
But my gut told me it wasn’t **Kaiser’s** statement.  
  
Or, at least, it wasn’t the kind I would have expected from him.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I might never have met that bastard in person, but I’d been studying Max fucking **Anders** my whole goddamn life. He’d been a constant presence on my mental landscape; a dark shadow looming over me no matter where I went or what I did. My own personal fucking boogeyman. Sooner or later, Dad said, one way or another, it would be me or him. With who we were, what we were, it simply couldn’t be any other way.  
  
An eye for an eye. A life for a life.  
  
Blood for blood.  
  
Dad’s mission; Dad’s cause. **Not** mine.  
  
(Did that make me a bad daughter? Did that make me a bad person, not wanting to avenge my own mother’s murder? I wasn’t sure I’d ever know the answer to that one. I sure as shit wasn’t going to ask anyone.)  
  
But I’d still studied the fucker. Studied him like my life depended on it which, well, it might. Him, and anyone connected with him; both civilian and cape.  
  
The point was, in a way, I knew Kaiser.  
  
And the events of last night? They didn’t feel like his usual MO.  
  
(It couldn’t be… Dad wouldn’t be making his move now, would he? Trying to destabilise Kaiser’s reign by kicking off a civil war within the ranks? That had been at least part of the plan. Our plan. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t already stirred up shit in the lower echelons of the Empire by hitting some of its softer targets. But…)  
  
(This kind of operation? On this scale? Right fucking now?)  
  
(No. No, that didn’t make sense. We hadn’t been even close to making a move for real. We didn’t have the allies, or the resources. We were still gathering intel, for fuck’s sake!)  
  
(Anyway. Dad wasn’t going to kick things off without me. And I didn’t think he’d given up on getting me back that easily.)  
  
The trouble was, I didn’t have the first fucking clue what this meant.  
  
Uneasily, I wondered if I should tell someone. But… what would I even say? All I had was a vague feeling that something felt off. It was hardly actionable intel. And then I’d have to explain **why** it felt off, which…  
  
No. No, I couldn’t risk it.  
  
Anyway, this was the PRT. Dealing with capes was what they did. I doubted I could tell them anything they hadn’t already figured out for themselves, and trying to speak up would only raise questions I couldn’t afford to answer. If it turned out that there was something I could usefully tell them, then I’d find a way, but until then I was best off keeping my mouth shut.  
  
Right. Enough woolgathering.  
  
I had some work to do.  
  
Starting with ‘Overview of Law Enforcement Procedures for Wards.’

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I felt the elevator move before I heard it, the sensation pulling my attention away from my notes on arrest powers and patrol procedures and the proper way to fill out incident reports. I checked the time, a little startled at how quickly it had passed. Other than a brief foray to the canteen to retrieve some lunch, I’d spent most of the past few hours immersed online course materials for new Wards. It was kind of interesting. I’d made quite a few notes, and I already had a list of questions I wanted to ask the course administrator.  
  
The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open. A few moments later, the door to the Wards HQ opened, and footsteps crossed the Hub. It sounded like Aegis.  
  
(My stomach fluttered uneasily, and I waited tensely to see if he would head this way. I couldn’t help a small surge of relief when his footsteps faded into the distance, rather than coming towards me.)  
  
Should I go and say hello?  
  
No, I wouldn’t want to disturb him. He undoubtedly had things to do, and didn’t need me bothering him for no reason at all.  
  
Anyway, I could always pretend I’d been lost in my studies and hadn’t heard him approach.  
  
I tried to suit the action to the thought, returning my attention to the computer.  
  
(It wasn’t the same, knowing that I wasn’t alone here. Knowing that the team leader was around, somewhere. Knowing that he could come in at any moment. I felt… twitchy.)  
  
(Shit. What was wrong with me? I wasn’t usually this on edge.)  
  
A short while later, movement in the doorway caught my eye. I looked up to see Aegis hovering there. Literally, hovering; he was suspended in the air a good foot or so above the floor.  
  
Mover. Right.  
  
(Shit. That meant I couldn’t necessarily rely on being able to hear him approach.)  
  
He dropped to the ground as I watched, giving me a small, slightly self-conscious-seeming smile.  
  
(I hoped he wasn’t angry with me for using the computers without asking.)  
  
Without really planning to, I got to my feet and came to attention.  
  
“Good afternoon, Sir,” I said.  
  
“Good afternoon,” he said, sounding a little awkward. “You, ah, you don’t have to get up. I mean, you can if you want to, obviously, but you don’t need to.”  
  
“Um, thank you, Sir,” I said cautiously, sitting back down again. I kept my attention on Aegis.  
  
“How are things going?” he asked, after a moment. He came into the room, and I couldn’t help stiffening just a little at his approach. Fortunately, he came to a halt on the other side of the desk.  
  
“Fine, thank you, Sir,” I replied. “I have a login for the computer network now. And an e-mail address. And a phone.”  
  
God, I sounded like an idiot.  
  
“That’s good,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad the PRT are on top of things.” I didn’t really know what to say to that, or even if I needed to say anything, so I just gave a little nod and continued to watch him. I couldn’t quite bring myself to return his smile. “Have you met Director Piggot yet?”  
  
“Yes, Sir. This morning.”  
  
“How did that go?”  
  
I considered my answer.  
  
“Well, I think, Sir,” I said carefully. “Although it’s a little hard to judge.”  
  
“I’m sure it was fine.” He sounded almost like he was trying to reassure me, for some reason. I wasn’t sure whether I appreciated the thought, or resented being thought weak enough to need reassurance. Maybe a little of both.  
  
I hesitated a moment, and then offered: “The director gave me a provisional schedule for the next couple of weeks. My power evaluation will be next Monday.”  
  
“Cool,” he said, nodding. “Please give my regards to Maddy — Dr Madeline Tynes. She’s the head of the northeast testing and research facility. She’s kind of intense, but nice. Oh, and you’ll get to ride in the Merlin, which is always fun. Assuming you’re not afraid of heights or anything.”  
  
He seemed to be rambling a little. Maybe I wasn’t the only one feeling awkward.  
  
“The Merlin, Sir?” I queried.  
  
“Tinkertech jump jet. Extremely fast and ridiculously manoeuvrable. They use it to ferry people back and forth to the facility.” His smile turned a little wry. “I have to warn you that some of the pilots do like to show off a little. Especially if you challenge them to put the Merlin through its paces. I’m told that can be quite… bracing.”  
  
“Let me guess, Sir: Dennis challenged the pilot?”  
  
“Chris, actually.” He shook his head. “Tinker competitiveness. What can you do?” Was that a thing? Tinkers getting competitive about their inventions? I wouldn’t be surprised. **People** could be competitive about the most ridiculous things, and when you factored in powers on top of that… “Speaking of Chris,” he continued. “He has console duty today, so I was thinking you could shadow him for part of his shift if you don’t have anything scheduled this afternoon.”  
  
“My schedule is clear for the rest of the day, Sir,” I confirmed. I frowned, remembering what Director Piggot had said. “I was supposed to have a combat skills assessment this afternoon, but the director decided to move that to next week instead.”  
  
“That’s probably for the best,” Aegis said, and team leader or not, I wanted to smack him for the gentle concern in his voice. What the fuck did I need to do to prove to these people that I wasn’t fucking **fragile**? I bit my tongue to stop myself saying anything that could come across as disrespectful.  
  
(I found myself wondering again just how much stronger than me he was; how much damage he could take. Or do. If I ever had to fight him for real, would I even have a chance against him? Or would it just be like…?)  
  
“Well, anyway,” he continued after a moment. “I guess I’ll leave you to it.”  
  
“Goodbye, Sir.”  
  
When Aegis was out of sight, and I heard his footsteps heading away from me, I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. Fuck. I hadn’t even been this tense around the director, and she outranked him by quite some way. What the fuck was wrong with me? Aegis hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t even threatened to do anything. What the hell was I so wound up for?  
  
Was it…?  
  
Could it be because he wasn’t white? Was that it? Had I really failed so badly at freeing myself from the fucked up way Dad saw the world? I didn’t know what it was, but just being around him freaked me the fuck out.  
  
Shit.  
  
Well, whatever it was, I would just have to get the fuck over it.  
  
(I really hoped I hadn’t pissed him off.)  
  
He was the team leader, and that was that.  
  
(I shuddered inside at the thought of making him angry with me.)  
  
I’d just have to suck it up, treat him with the respect due his position, and try not to fuck up.  
  
(I didn’t want to go to the basement. Not again. Not when I already hurt so much.)  
  
Anyway, enough pointless fretting. I had stuff to do.  
  
Time to get back to my studies…

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I finished the sentence I was writing, checked it through for errors and, finding none, hit the ‘submit answer’ button. I nodded in satisfaction as I skimmed the model answer and found mine close enough. Not that this actually meant anything — it was just a learning aid, rather than an actual assessment; that would come at the end of the module — but it was still pleasing to know my progress was satisfactory so far.  
  
Okay, this was probably a convenient stopping point for the moment. In any case, Chris and Dennis had turned up a little while ago. I should probably talk to Chris about shadowing him on console duty today, and I wanted to ask him about requesting materials for my experiments. I guessed now was as good a time as any. I logged out of the computer, packed my notebook and pen into my bag and picked up my empty coffee mug. After a quick check to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, or made a mess of the place, I headed out into the Hub.  
  
Chris and Dennis were sprawled out on the sofa, apparently playing some game or other on the big screen. Somehow I was completely unsurprised. I was, however, a little surprised that neither of them were in costume. Instead, they both wore T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms. Before I could greet them, Chris sighed loudly and paused the game, setting his controller aside.  
  
“We should get going,” he said, sounding extremely reluctant.  
  
“We’ve got plenty of time yet,” Dennis said dismissively. “Just a bit longer?” The action on the screen unpaused, and Chris scrambled for his controller, frantically hitting one of the buttons so that it paused again.  
  
“Don’t be an asshole, Dennis,” Chris said. I couldn’t help noting that he’d probably sound firmer if his whole posture wasn’t slumped and weary. “Let’s just get this out of the way, okay?”  
  
“The gym will still be there in a few minutes,” Dennis grumbled. “But fine, if it’ll stop you whining about it.” Heaving a dramatic sigh, he turned the console and screen off.  
  
Chris started to say something snippy, but then looked up and spotted me, his cross expression turning into a small smile.  
  
“Oh, hi Astrid. How are you?” His smile dimmed a little as he got a good look at my face. “Shit. I see why Carlos wanted to have a talk with Shadow Stalker. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”  
  
I bit back my instinctive, somewhat profanity-laden response. Why the fuck did these people keep treating me like I was made of fucking glass? It was just a few bruises, for crying out loud! It wasn’t like it was anything serious.  
  
“Hey, New Girl,” Dennis said before I could reply. He raised one hand in a lazy wave. “How long have you been looming there?”  
  
I never would have thought I’d say this, but Dennis’ interruption wasn’t exactly unwelcome. I mean, sure, it was irritating as fuck, but at least he wasn’t calling me weak. I’d take a little bit of needling over pity any day of the week.  
  
I still rolled my eyes, my hackles raising no matter how firmly I told myself not that letting him rile me up was giving him exactly what he wanted.  
  
What an **asshole**.  
  
“I’m not looming,” I muttered. “And I just got here. Although I’ve been in the HQ most of the day.” I very pointedly turned to Chris and gave him a smile. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”  
  
I very deliberately ignored the rest of what he’d said. Hopefully he would take the hint.  
  
“Oh, I’m good.” He grimaced. “Not looking forward to sparring with this asshole, though. Still, it’s got to be done.” I don’t know whether he thought I looked confused, or if it was a sign of just how lax things were here, but he obviously felt the need to explain, adding: “We’re expected to log a minimum number of hours in the gym each week, and that has to include a certain amount of non-powered sparring practice.”  
  
“Aegis gets on our case if we don’t hit those all important targets,” Dennis chimed in, pulling a face. “Which means, unfortunately, that it’s that time again.”  
  
Okay, that was good. Director Piggot had mentioned keeping up with training, but I was glad to see that Aegis was on top of things. Even if Chris and Dennis didn’t seem to have the best attitude about it. Still, no matter how much they moaned and complained, they were at least actually doing what they were supposed to. I found that reassuring.  
  
At least something here made sense.  
  
“Mind if I join you?” I asked. “I’ve been sitting on my ass most of the day, and I wouldn’t mind the chance to do something a little more physical.”  
  
Plus, I was interested in seeing how good they were. Shadow Stalker had impressed me. (Even if I did curse her name every now and again when I moved or sat a little too carelessly and my back complained at me.) I… wasn’t expecting these two to be as good, honestly, but I was curious to see what the range was.  
  
Dennis smirked, because of course he did.  
  
“I’ll **bet** you want to do something physical with me,” he murmured, and I flushed crimson despite my best efforts.  
  
I rolled my eyes and tried not to look as embarrassed as I felt.  
  
“I was talking about sparring, you asshole,” I ground out.  
  
“So was I, of course,” he said, mock-innocently. “But it’s so **interesting** that you immediately assumed I meant something… salacious.” And there was that damnable smirk again. Not trusting myself to speak, I merely glowered at him. “Anyway,” he said. “Tempting though your offer is, I’m afraid I must decline. However, I’m sure Chris would love to get physical with you.” Chris spluttered, also flushing a little. I felt a pang of sympathy for a fellow blusher. Dennis clapped him on the shoulder. “Right, Chris?”  
  
Thinking about it, sparring with Dennis would probably be a really bad idea right now. I wasn’t honestly sure I could trust myself to hold back. And apparently Wards weren’t supposed to even leave bruises, or whatever.  
  
Because **that** made sense.  
  
I turned to Chris.  
  
“Do you want to spar?” I asked, a little hopefully. I hadn’t been kidding about wanting to do something that didn’t involve sitting on my ass. Maybe I would even go out for that run in a bit.  
  
(I suppressed a shiver as a cold chill ran all the way down my spine.)  
  
“Um, I usually spar with Dennis,” Chris said a little uncertainly. “Apart from when Carlos makes us mix it up a bit.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Dennis said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll grab Carlos or whoever later. Or you, if the new girl doesn’t wear you out too much. Besides, it probably is good to mix it up a bit once in a while.”  
  
Chris studied me for a moment, a small frown creasing his brow.  
  
“Are you sure you’re alright to spar?” he asked. “You’re still looking a bit…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.  
  
I tried really, really hard not to clench my hands into fists.  
  
“I’m **fine** ,” I said carefully, only just managing to keep my words the right side of a growl. “It looks a lot worse than it is. Anyway, I didn’t have any problems when I hit the gym this morning.”  
  
“Well… okay,” he said, still looking and sounding distinctly unsure. “If you’re sure.”  
  
“Great!” I said, wondering why that had been so much like pulling teeth. “I’ll go and get changed, and I’ll see you up there. Okay?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Okay.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Back in my room, despite not wanting to keep Chris waiting, I found myself pausing in the middle of getting changed into my gym clothes. Driven by a feeling I couldn’t quite identify, I studied my skin, trying to figure out what other people saw when they looked at me. Between hell week, being disciplined and yesterday’s sparring match with Shadow Stalker, maybe I **was** a little more battered and bruised than usual. And, this early in the year, I didn’t really have much of a tan. That meant the marks stood out a little more starkly against the paleness of my skin.  
  
But they didn’t look **that** bad, did they?  
  
For comparison I tried to picture my skin without bruises, without cuts and grazes. Without scars. And… I couldn’t. I didn’t even remember a time when I didn’t have marks on my body. From training. From fighting; usually with Lance, but sometimes with outsiders. From being disciplined.  
  
The only part of me that was usually unmarked was my face. Lance wasn’t supposed to hit me in the face. I mean, he did, sometimes; like before we went up to the cabin. Just like I sometimes broke the rules and left visible marks on him. But it didn’t happen that often. And Dad… Dad never touched my face. Well, not usually. He had back at the cabin, when I disobeyed him, but that was definitely an exception. I **really** had to fuck up for him to do anything to my face.  
  
(The last time he hit me in the face was when I’d tried to run. But I wouldn’t, couldn’t think about that right now. Because if I thought about how he’d punished me back then, I might start thinking about what he’d do if he caught me this time. And I didn’t want to think about that. I couldn’t.)  
  
Shadow Stalker, on the other hand, certainly hadn’t been shy about smacking me in the face. Repeatedly.  
  
I dug around in my bag until I found my old, somewhat dented and scratched compact, and studied my reflection in the mirror. Yeah, okay. I guessed Dad and Shadow Stalker between them — honestly, mostly Shadow Stalker — had messed my face up a little. But it still wasn’t **that** bad. Certainly not bad enough to warrant all the concerned looks.  
  
I shook my head and closed the compact. On a whim, I sent my power through it, first learning its shape and then…  
  
 _(Restore.)_  
  
…fixing it.  
  
Scratches filled in and dents smoothed out until the battered old thing looked — and felt — as good as new. Metal and glass were shiny and pristine and unmarked, the pattern on the lid as clear and sharp as if it had only just been etched. I turned it over in my hands, studying it; thinking about how it felt to fix it. It wasn’t like I automatically knew what it was supposed to be. The template I’d built in my mind… That was for how it **was** , scratches and dents and all. Unlike the practice dummy, and the glass, I’d had to fix this the hard way; seeking out and restoring the imperfections by feel alone. Not that it had been especially hard, but then this was a pretty simple item. Something large or complex would undoubtedly have been much harder.  
  
Fixing things didn’t feel nearly as natural, as instinctive, as **easy** as ripping them apart. Or weaponising them. It didn’t feel nearly as good doing this as it had to cut a swathe of destruction through my bedroom furniture, reducing objects to small piles of dust. That had been… Exhilarating.  
  
(Fuck, it made me breathe faster just thinking about it; made my skin tingle. It almost made me want to reach out right now and just start rending bonds left, right and centre. I reined in the urge. More than that, I tried to pretend it didn’t even exist.)  
  
(That shit was fucking disturbing.)  
  
It didn’t feel as good, on a visceral, almost primal level, to think about repairing things as it did to consider how I could turn them into a weapon. Like letting my cutting wires surge forth. Like making a bomb out of a phone battery. Like turning aluminium into flash powder.  
  
(The thought of making weapons didn’t get my heart racing as much as imagining what it would feel like to rip the Hub apart right now, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a certain kind of… anticipation.)  
  
(Not to mention as uncomfortable as fuck.)  
  
This, though? Fixing a battered thing? That felt good in a different way. An intellectual, emotional way, rather than the rush of an adrenaline high. I thought… I thought I liked fixing things. I thought I might like making things even more.  
  
(Regardless of what my power wanted me to do.)  
  
Except… Except, as I studied my shiny, new-looking compact, I had a ridiculous pang of something that might almost be regret. Sure, it looked better now — **was** better — but those dents and scratches and scars… They’d been part of it. They’d told a story. Like the dent from where I’d once thrown it across the room when I didn’t like what the mirror showed me. Or the faint crack from when that stuck up bitch Melissa Roberts in fourth grade had ‘accidentally’ knocked my bag off the desk, spilling its contents across the floor. Any one of the marks it had picked up during its long life.  
  
(Some of them had probably been from back when it was Mom’s.)  
  
But I was being stupid.  
  
Of course it was better that I’d fixed it. It was more functional this way; better fit for purpose. What was the point in leaving it scarred when I could make it shiny and new again?  
  
Sometimes I came up with the most random nonsense.  
  
Anyway, I needed to get a wriggle on. Chris was waiting for me to spar with him.  
  
I reached for the long sleeved T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms I’d picked out — all the better to cover up those unsightly marks — but then hesitated. I stood there for a breath or two, thinking, and then grabbed a tank top and shorts instead, quickly pulling them on.  
  
The whole point of covering up was to keep people from asking questions; to keep the authorities from getting involved. But that horse had well and truly bolted. And it wasn’t like Chris and Dennis didn’t already know I was a little bit bruised. So why not wear something I was more comfortable in?  
  
In conclusion: fuck it.  
  
And fuck **them** if they even thought about pitying me.  
  
I didn’t need their goddamn pity.  
  
I wasn’t a fucking victim.  
  
I was strong.  
  
I could endure.  
  
I was a **survivor**.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

My determination may possibly have faltered just a little as I strode onto the sparring mat to see Chris and Dennis staring at me.  
  
What the fuck was Dennis even doing here, anyway? I thought the whole point of him volunteering Chris to spar with me was that he didn’t have to do it right now. I’d kind of assumed he would be slacking off and playing computer games or something. I kept my chin up and my shoulders back, narrowing my eyes a little, my whole posture challenging.  
  
If either of them said one goddamn thing to suggest they thought I wasn’t up to sparring, I swore I was going to fucking deck them.  
  
Dennis, naturally, was the first one to speak.  
  
“Damn,” he said softly, looking me up and down. “You really do work out, don’t you?”  
  
Well, fuck. If he was looking to take the wind out of my sails, he’d pretty much succeeded.  
  
“Every day,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as awkward as I felt. “It’s important to maintain my strength and fitness.”  
  
“Well, you’re certainly fit,” he said, and winked at me.  
  
I had no idea whatsoever how to respond to that, and I had a horrible feeling that my face was bright red. Well, the parts of it that weren’t purple, anyway. I turned to Chris, who also seemed a little flushed. I would’ve thought he’d be used to Dennis’ sense of humour by now, but maybe that was just the kind of thing you never really got used to. I wasn’t sure I ever would.  
  
“Have you warmed up yet?” I asked him.  
  
“Oh, um, no. Not yet,” he said, looking not unlike a deer caught in headlights. “I didn’t really think it would be necessary?”  
  
I wasn’t sure why he made that last part a question, but I answered him anyway.  
  
“You should always warm up if you get the chance. Less risk of damaging yourself that way.” I started my own limbering up routine.  
  
“Yeah, Chris,” Dennis said, and I didn’t need to look at him to know that he was smirking like an asshole. “Haven’t you learned anything? Foreplay’s important.”  
  
Chris and I both spluttered at that.  
  
“Fuck off, Dennis!” I snapped. “Why the fuck are you even here? Shouldn’t you be blowing up aliens, or some shit like that?”  
  
“I thought I’d come and watch an expert at work,” he said sweetly. “Pick up a few tips for my own sparring.”  
  
I glared at him.  
  
“Well, can the commentary,” I said shortly. “We don’t need the distraction.”  
  
“I’ll be as good as gold, I swear,” he said solemnly. “You won’t even know I’m here.”  
  
Now, why didn’t I believe him? Oh, right: because I wasn’t a fucking idiot. But, short of bodily throwing him out of the gym — or using my power to do so — there wasn’t an awful lot I could do about it. And, tempting though it was to physically evict him, I wasn’t sure I really trusted myself to put my hands on him right now. Or to turn my power on him.  
  
“We’d better not,” I muttered. He mimed zipping his mouth shut.  
  
Chris shook himself and did a few half-hearted stretches and squats before bouncing up and down in place a few times. Even though he started after me, he was done before I was. I wondered if I should say something, but I wasn’t sure it was my place. Anyway, pain was the best teacher. Maybe if he strained something, or got a cramp, or whatever, he’d remember to warm up properly next time.  
  
“You really work out every day?” Chris asked as I finished up and moved to stand across from him on the mat.  
  
“Yes,” I said.  
  
“Every single day, no matter what?” He sounded surprised.  
  
“Yes,” I said again, only just managing not to roll my eyes. He was a Ward, for fuck’s sake. Surely he had **some** kind of fitness routine. The idea of someone working out every day surely couldn’t be that foreign a concept.  
  
Chris frowned suddenly, looking concerned. His gaze flicked over me again, lingering on my face and my sore wrist. “And you said you hit the gym this morning, too?”  
  
“ **Yes** ,” I said, flatly, tensing a little. If he commented on my injuries one more time, or said he didn’t think I was up to a little fucking exercise…  
  
“Don’t you get tired of it?” That was Dennis. So much for not even knowing he was there. I couldn’t honestly say I was surprised that he’d barely even lasted a few minutes before breaking his silence. “I mean, day in, day out, the same thing?” he continued. “I can’t argue with the results, mind you, but it must be so **boring**.”  
  
Irritating as the question was, at least it was a familiar one. And it wasn’t nearly as irritating as someone telling me, **again** , that they thought I was weak.  
  
Okay, maybe that’s not how Chris would have phrased it, but that’s what it boiled down to.  
  
I really fucking **hated** people thinking I was weak.  
  
“Not an option,” I said shortly. “I need to maintain my strength and fitness. That means I have to put in the effort. And it’s not always the same thing, day in, day out. I tend to mix it up a little.” I tried to dial back my irritation a little. It’s not like Dennis was the first person to ask me this. Honestly, it was by far not the worst thing he could have said at this point. Anyway, at least it distracted me from Chris’ fucking **concern**. “Anyway, I like working out.”  
  
Dennis raised his eyebrows, his expression one of exaggerated surprise.  
  
“You **like** working out.” It was a little too flat to be an actual question, but I answered it anyway.  
  
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”  
  
“You did, yes, but I thought I must have misheard.”  
  
Chris made a disbelieving noise. (Honestly, I’d almost forgotten he was there.)  
  
“ **You** work out,” he said to Dennis, startling me.  
  
“Well, yeah. Occasionally. In those very rare times when I’m actually in the mood.” I studied him surreptitiously. I guessed he didn’t actually look actively unfit. Especially considering the amount of junk food he apparently consumed. Even if he wasn’t anywhere near Aegis’ or Lance’s league. “But doing it regularly, for fun? That’s just crazy. Aegis-level crazy. Or masochistic.”  
  
He gave me a meaningful look.  
  
I opened my mouth to snap at him, then closed it again when I realised I had absolutely no idea what to say.  
  
He smirked suddenly, pointing at me. “And don’t think I didn’t see you checking me out.”  
  
“I wasn’t checking you out,” I muttered, flushing. “Don’t flatter yourself.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” he said, striking a pose. “I don’t mind.”  
  
I took a deep breath and resolutely turned my back on him, focusing my attention on Chris.  
  
“Right,” I said to Chris, firmly. “Shall we begin?”  
  
“Um, aren’t you going to take that off first?” He gestured to my forearms.  
  
“My metal?” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as forlorn to him and Dennis as it did to my own ears. “I wasn’t planning on it. But I can if you’d prefer.”  
  
Please say it’s fine. Please say it’s fine. Please say it’s fine.  
  
I didn’t want to lose my metal. It felt right, having it wrapped around my forearms. It felt like it belonged there.  
  
“I think I would, if that’s okay.”  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
“Fine,” I said, trying not to sound like it was a big deal. Because it wasn’t a big deal. It was fine. I was fine with it. (It was totally a big deal. And I wasn’t fine with it. Not even a little.) I crossed to one of the training dummies and draped my metal over it, trying not to feel bereft as I went back to stand across from Chris. “Ready?” I asked him.  
  
“Sure,” he said. “Oh, um, hang on a moment.” He crossed to the edge of the mat and picked up… some padded gloves? Hurrying back, he handed a pair to me. I took them somewhat bemusedly. He put the other pair on and adjusted the cuffs.  
  
I glanced down at them, and then at him.  
  
“You wear gloves when you spar?” I asked.  
  
He froze, blinking owlishly at me. “You **don’t**?”  
  
“Not usually, but it’s fine.” If that was how they did things here, then who was I to argue? (No matter how much Dad’s voice in my head called them soft and weak.) I put on the gloves and carefully adjusted the fit, flexing my hands to make sure they weren’t going to slip around or cut off my circulation. “Okay, let’s go.”  
  
I moved into a combat stance and Chris did the same. I noted disapprovingly that his guard was weak. His stance was reasonably good, though; his centre of gravity low and his weight distributed evenly. I wondered if that came of flying on a hoverboard. I bet that wasn’t overly forgiving of sloppy footwork.  
  
Even as this was going through my head, I was already moving, launching a series of light strikes, more to gauge his responses than as a serious attack. Except… he yelped and reeled.  
  
“Stop!” he yelled.  
  
Confused, I did so.  
  
“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”  
  
He wrapped an arm around his middle, gasping.  
  
“Would you mind pulling your blows a little?” he asked, sounding pained.  
  
I frowned.  
  
“I was pulling my blows,” I informed him. And I had been! I wasn’t using anywhere near the level of force I was used to. And that wasn’t even taking into account of the way the padded gloves would soften the impacts. Honestly, I’d actually been worried I was pulling my blows too much, but I figured better safe than sorry. Anyway, he could always ask me to step it up again if he wanted.  
  
But, apparently, I hadn’t played it safe enough.  
  
“Well, um, could you pull them more? You’re hitting quite a bit harder than we usually do.”  
  
“Really?” The word slipped out before I could stop it, the skepticism in my voice pretty damn obvious to anyone with ears.  
  
“Yes!” Chris stared at me like he wasn’t entirely sure I was being serious. I stared back, not knowing what to say.  
  
“You know,” Dennis interjected, giving me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Astrid was in an underground fight club.”  
  
Oh, for fuck’s sake!  
  
“What, really?” If Chris’ eyes opened any wider, his eyeballs were going to pop right out.  
  
I gritted my teeth.  
  
“No, he’s making it up,” I told Chris firmly.  
  
“But it would explain so much,” Dennis said.  
  
I turned and glowered at him. “Just shut the fuck up,” I growled. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I turned back to Chris, who started a little. “Shall we try this again?”  
  
“Okay.” He sounded uncertain, but whatever. If he said he was good to continue, I was going to take him at his word. We faced off once again, and I really did try to pull my blows even more, but still: “Ow! Shit, ow!” Chris rubbed his side, wincing. “I think that’s going to leave a bruise.”  
  
“I doubt it,” I muttered. I took a deep breath. “Okay, one more time.”  
  
In the end, it took a bit of trial and error — mostly error — before I could hit Chris without making him yelp. Well, I said ‘hit,’ but I was barely even making contact with him. I was honestly surprised he could even feel my strikes, but he assured me he could. I had to bite my tongue on some very uncomplimentary observations.  
  
“The new girl likes to play rough,” Dennis murmured. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore him. I also tried to ignore the way my face flushed. Fuck, how did he manage to make something as innocuous as meaningful sparring sound so goddamn **filthy**? Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so, judging by the way Chris’ cheeks reddened noticeably at the comment.  
  
“Does he ever shut up?” I asked, a little plaintively, as we sparred. Well, I wasn’t sure I would really call it sparring, but whatever.  
  
“Not if he can help it,” Chris sighed. “I think it’s part of his power.”  
  
“I could gag him,” I muttered. “It would be easy.” It would, too. I wouldn’t even need my metal, technically. I could use his T-shirt. Or the training dummy he was leaning against. Or pretty much anything I could touch.  
  
“I knew you were kinky,” Dennis observed, making me twitch a little. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you gag me. My mouth is just too talented to be restrained. Like I said before, though, you want to talk other kinds of restraints, I’m game.”  
  
I… may have hit Chris just a little harder than I meant to, going right through his pathetic attempt at a block like it wasn’t even there and landing a series of strikes that very definitely connected. He stumbled backwards and fell on his ass, breathing hard.  
  
Fuck.  
  
On one level I kind of looked down on him for being so soft but, mostly, I just felt bad.  
  
It was Dennis I was pissed off at, not Chris. It wasn’t fair to take out my temper on someone who didn’t deserve it. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have let my ire make me careless like that.  
  
Anyway, this whole goddamned exercise was too much like the way I imagined kicking a puppy would feel. A cute, cheerful, helpless puppy. Chris’ hand to hand combat skills weren’t anywhere near the same level as mine. He couldn’t stop me hitting him; couldn’t do anything at all meaningful to me in return. I didn’t think he’d even come close to being able to hit me — actually, I was halfway sure he wasn’t actually trying to, not seriously.  
  
This was pointless, frustrating and honestly made me feel kind of awful.  
  
I knew what Dad would do in this situation. He’d beat Chris black and blue, using pain to motivate him to learn not to get hit. He’d discipline him for not taking this seriously enough. And he’d do it over and over again until the lesson stuck.  
  
(‘I don’t care how tired you are, girl. Do you think fights only happen when you’re well rested? When you’re in perfect condition? I didn’t raise you to be that fucking naive. Now get up, get back in position, and come at me like you mean it. And I swear to God, if you don’t start taking this seriously, then I’m going to teach you a fucking lesson that you won’t forget in a hurry.’)  
  
And maybe it would be better for Chris in the long run to hurt a little now so he didn’t end up getting hurt a lot worse later, out in the field, but I…  
  
Shit.  
  
I felt really bad about hurting him even this much, by accident. It was probably weak of me, but I didn’t think I could bring myself to do worse, on purpose.  
  
(Fuck, Dad would discipline **me** for this if he knew. For using more force than I intended. For hurting Chris worse than I meant to. He’d almost certainly give me another demonstration about the importance of control.)  
  
(And I’d fucking deserve it.)  
  
Anyway, it wasn’t my place to teach him a lesson. Discipline was Aegis’ remit, and I sure as shit wasn’t planning on saying anything to **him**. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure my silence would do my team mate any favours in the long run.  
  
“I’m sorry, Chris,” I muttered, helping him get to his feet. (I was surprised he actually let me help him.) “I didn’t mean to do that. Are you okay?”  
  
“I’ll live,” he said, wincing, his voice hitching a little. “Just, um, please be careful in future? Please?”  
  
“Yeah, don’t break the poor boy, New Girl,” Dennis said. “He’s a delicate flower. You have to be gentle with him.” But he ambled over and gave Chris what seemed to be a genuinely concerned once over. “You alright, Chris? Do you need to take a break?”  
  
“I’m fine.” Chris’ voice was a little stronger now, and he rolled his eyes at Dennis. “Anyway, who are you and what have you done with Dennis? Since when did you start acting concerned, rather than laughing your ass off at my misfortune?”  
  
“Well, that’s just charming, that is,” Dennis sniffed. “I’ll just leave you to the new girl’s tender mercies, shall I?” He stepped back off the mat. I half-expected him to leave the gym altogether, but he remained in place, pointing to me, and then to his eyes, and then back to me again. “But I’ll be watching you, Little Miss Excessive Force. You’d better dial it back from now on.”  
  
(I wondered if that was anger in his eyes.)  
  
“I’ll try to be careful,” I said, more to Chris than to Dennis, since he was the one I’d actually hurt. I attempted a grin. “You can take a free shot at me if you want. Even the score.”  
  
He stared at me for a moment, and then grinned back uncertainly. “Very funny,” he said.  
  
I frowned.  
  
“I wasn’t joking,” I said. “It seems only fair.”  
  
I’d fucked up, after all. And at least this way, the matter would be over and done with. No lingering grudges to cloud the air. Ordinarily, I’d just suggest we continue sparring so he could try to get some payback but, well, that clearly wasn’t going to work. There was no way he’d be able to actually hit me unless I let him.  
  
Once again, he eyes went so wide I feared for the safety of his eyeballs.  
  
“I would **never** do that!” He looked, and sounded, utterly horrified. “That’s… That’s really messed up, Astrid.”  
  
“No it isn’t,” I said, my tone a little more defensive than I was really comfortable with. Jesus, what the fuck **was** it with these people? “It’s just evening the scales, that’s all.”  
  
“No, Chris is right,” Dennis said, and for once he sounded almost serious. “That’s fucked up.”  
  
I looked from one of them to the other, feeling uncertain, pissed off, and God knew what else. Whatever emotions were rattling around inside me, they sure as shit didn’t feel good. Maybe I should just stop talking altogether. Nothing good ever seemed to come of me opening my stupid mouth. I was so much better with actions than words.  
  
“Whatever,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Just a thought.”  
  
“Astrid,” Dennis said, surprising me by actually using my name. I looked at him, but just sighed and shook his head. “No, actually, I literally have no idea what to say to that.”  
  
I glared at him, biting back my first response, and my second, eventually trying to make myself stand the fuck down and going with the closest thing to humour that I could actually manage right now.  
  
Since none of my usual responses seemed to help with these people, why not try one of Dennis’ instead?  
  
“What’s wrong, Dennis? That mouth of yours not as talented as you thought? How… disappointing.”  
  
Silence followed my words, Dennis and Chris just staring at me. Glumly, I thought I would just have to resign myself to a life of silence. After all, if even a joke — not a great one, perhaps, but a joke nonetheless — got this kind of reaction, then maybe there was no hope for me.  
  
But then Chris started snickering. Dennis pulled a face at him.  
  
“Traitor!” he accused, pointing dramatically. But his eyes were glinting with what I thought was amusement. So… maybe I hadn’t fucked this up after all? At least, not too badly?  
  
“What?” Chris said, grinning. “It was funny.”  
  
I relaxed a little, giving Chris a small smile of my own.  
  
“Thanks,” I said. “Glad I could amuse you.” I wasn’t sure it made up for knocking him down, but since he didn’t seem to like the other alternative, that didn’t leave me very many options.  
  
“So you’d side with the girl who just beat you up over your very best friend in all the world? Does our bond mean nothing to you? You’d just ruthlessly toss me aside for the first tall, blonde, semi-naked amazon you get up close and personal with?” He gave an exaggerated frown. “Wait, no, never mind. That actually makes perfect sense. Carry on.”  
  
Dennis was hamming it up like he was made of bacon. I rolled my eyes at his shenanigans, even if I was blushing like it was going out of style.  
  
“I did **not** beat him up,” I protested, knowing he was trying to get a reaction out of one or both of us, but unable to help myself. “I just… hit him a little harder than I meant to, that’s all.” I couldn’t help adding, a little defensively: “And it wasn’t **that** hard, anyway.”  
  
I very deliberately ignored the rest of what Dennis had said, knowing that there was absolutely no way in hell I’d be able to address it without stuttering like a fool.  
  
Anyway, I wasn’t semi-naked! My shorts and tank top were perfectly decent, thank you very much. And I **liked** the freedom of movement they gave me. I wasn’t usually particularly shy, but I felt really fucking self-conscious all of a sudden. I did my best to ignore it.  
  
Still, though. At least he wasn’t harping on about my bruises. That was something.  
  
“I’m not sure Chris would agree,” Dennis said, and then smirked. “But then again, maybe he’s discovered he doesn’t mind playing a little rough after all. At least not with the right girl. If you know what I mean.”  
  
Even if his smirk didn’t paint a pretty fucking vivid picture, his sly tone sure as shit did.  
  
I wondered if my cheeks might actually catch on fire.  
  
I carefully avoided looking at Chris who, judging from the way he was spluttering incoherently and stammering out something that sounded like part denial, and part extensive cursing of Dennis and his sense of humour, was just as flustered as I was.  
  
(It was actually something of a relief to realise that at least one of my instinctive reactions would apparently be considered ‘normal’ by these people.)  
  
Casting about for some way to change the fucking subject sharpish-like, I seized upon the first thing that came to mind with the desperation of a drowning girl clutching at a life raft.  
  
“Do you know a PRT soldier who goes by the name Seraph?” I blurted out.  
  
Dennis’ eyes lit up.  
  
“Seraph? She’s **awesome**. She has the best sense of humour, and she’s absolutely amazing at coming up with nicknames.”  
  
Well, shit. Of course they knew each other. Of **course** they did.  
  
Chris groaned loudly.  
  
“They once had an entire conversation consisting of nothing but puns,” he said, shuddering, apparently having recovered his composure. Even if he was still a little flushed. “It was awful. Each one was worse than the last. I thought my brain was going to leak out through my ears by the end of it.”  
  
“I can imagine,” I said, wincing sympathetically. I was relieved my gambit seemed to have worked. But I was also starting to feel a little restless just standing around chatting, so I gave Chris an enquiring look. “So, how about we leave the sparring for the moment-“  
  
“Sure,” he interrupted.  
  
“And work on some basic techniques instead?” I finished, frowning a little as I studied him. I hadn’t hit him **that** hard, had I? I didn’t think I’d actually injured him, just winded him a little. “You want to stop now?” I asked, trying not to sound too judgemental. “I thought there was plenty of time left before your shift starts.”  
  
“Has the new girl worn you out already, Chris?” Dennis said teasingly. “Maybe you need to work on your stamina.”  
  
Huh. That was interesting. Apparently, when Chris got **really** embarrassed, the tips of his ears went pink. I… kind of found that a little amusing, even as I sympathised with his discomfiture.  
  
“Oh.” Chris resolutely didn’t look in Dennis’ direction, keeping his attention focused on me. “Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time,” he said. “I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing.”  
  
I shrugged.  
  
(I cursed Shadow Stalker again in my head. If she hadn’t smacked me in the back quite so hard, I wouldn’t have fresh scabs to worry about now. I cursed Dad too, for good measure. Did he really have to take his fucking belt to me? Seriously? He couldn’t just have used his fists? Last of all, I cursed myself, for disobeying him. If I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have had to discipline me in the first place. But then… If I hadn’t disobeyed him, if I’d headed straight home like he’d ordered, I wouldn’t have met Gallant. Dean. I wouldn’t have had someone I could call to ask for help. I wouldn’t have had somewhere to go when I ran.)  
  
(If I even ran at all.)  
  
(One way or another, I wouldn’t be here right now.)  
  
(On balance, a few welts were a price I was more than willing to pay for my freedom.)  
  
(Assuming, of course, that I really was free.)  
  
“It’s fine. I really don’t mind. Besides, don’t you still have to log some more time in the gym?” I was assuming he did, anyway.  
  
“I guess,” he said, less than enthusiastically, and then sighed. “Okay, sure. What do you suggest?” He grinned lopsidedly. “Since you’re apparently the expert here.”  
  
“How about we start with strikes and blocks, then move onto holds and breaks?” I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “If that goes well, we can even try some throws.”  
  
“I don’t know if I could throw you,” he said, looking me up and down. “You’re taller than me. And, uh, kind of strong.”  
  
“Sure you can,” I told him cheerfully, pleased at the compliment. “It’s all about leverage. But we’ll start with the simple stuff, don’t worry.”  
  
“Great,” he said, looking a little concerned despite my words. Oh well. Maybe he’d relax when we actually got started, and he realised how easy it really was.  
  
“So,” Dennis said, as I took Chris through a basic drill sequence. “Just out of curiosity, why’d you ask about Seraph?”  
  
“I met her in the canteen this morning,” I said absently, motioning to Chris to get his guard up. Again. “She was there with Captain Cavendish and another soldier called Murphy. It was pretty crowded, so Captain Cavendish invited me to sit with them.” I shot him a flat look, confident that I would still be able to block Chris’ somewhat lacklustre punches even with only half my attention on him. I was right. “Her sense of humour made me think of you.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dennis said smugly. “Together with the fact that you apparently can’t get me off your mind.”  
  
“Fuck off, Dennis,” I told him absently, trying to work out how to tell Chris he was apparently missing the point of the drill. “Hold up a moment, Chris,” I said, trying my level best to keep my frustration out of my voice. “Remember, you’re supposed to be aiming for me, not the air.”  
  
“I don’t want to hit you,” Chris said, sounding concerned. I pretended I didn’t see the way his eyes flicked over my bruises.  
  
“You won’t,” I assured him, somehow managing not to roll my eyes. “But there’s no point in doing this if you’re not going to do it properly. I took a small step forwards, closing the distance enough so that he should actually be able to reach me. “Okay, let’s try it again. But like you mean it, this time.”  
  
Eventually, I did manage to get him to the point where he actually might have stood a chance of hitting me with a little oomph behind it. If I’d stood there with my eyes closed, perfectly still, without even trying to block. Still, his punches were at least on target now, so that was something. Actually, his basic technique wasn’t as awful as I’d feared, once he’d felt sufficiently reassured that no, he wasn’t actually going to hit me. I mean, anyone who had even the vaguest idea what they were doing was going to take him apart in close quarters combat, but he at least knew how to throw a punch. In theory. When he wasn’t second-guessing himself.  
  
His attitude definitely needed a lot of work, though. How did he expect to defend himself — let alone actually win a fucking fight — if he wasn’t willing to hit someone? If he wasn’t willing to hurt someone?  
  
Jesus.  
  
This guy really was a puppy at heart, wasn’t he?  
  
Dennis kept up a steady commentary as we went through the drills, which both of us mostly tried to ignore. Mostly. Sometimes, though, even though I knew it was a really bad idea, I couldn’t help snapping at him.  
  
Like when I suggested to Chris that we leave the strikes for now and try some holds, and Dennis, the asshole, piped up with:  
  
“So, wait: I try to pat you on the head and nearly get my wrist broken. But you’re actually offering to let Chris put his hands on you? How does that work? Do you just like him more than me? Should I be jealous?”  
  
I whirled around to face Dennis. Steam was practically coming out of my ears, I was so mad. Not to mention **really** fucking embarrassed.  
  
“It’s combat training, you complete and utter **asshole** ,” I ground out. “It has to involve a certain amount of physical contact, or there’s no fucking point. But context makes all the goddamn difference in the **world**. Being grabbed, or hit, or whatever, when sparring isn’t even a little bit the same as when I’m just minding my own business and some **motherfucker** tries to touch me without so much as a by-your-leave. I really fucking **hate** that! Why would you even think that was appropriate? Why would you think it’s alright to just invade someone’s personal space whenever you fucking feel like it? What gives you the right to put your hands on a person without asking? You don’t even **know** me!” My voice had risen during my little rant, so that I was practically yelling by this point. I made myself stop talking and take a breath, trying to simmer the fuck down. I gave Dennis a disgusted look. “You’re goddamn **lucky** all I did was put you in a fucking wrist lock,” I muttered.  
  
(Dad and Lance were so much stronger than me. Especially Dad. If they really wanted to hurt me, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. But I didn’t have to put up with that shit from anyone else. I **wouldn’t**. I wasn’t helpless. I wasn’t a fucking victim. No one was going to lay a hand on me without my say so. **No one**. Especially not some asshole I’d only just met. Anyone even **thought** about trying anything with me, I’d make them fucking regret it.)  
  
Shit.  
  
Where had that even **come** from? It was in the past. He’d apologised, and I’d accepted. It was over. There was no fucking point in getting mad about it now, but I was. I really, really was, and I didn’t even have the first fucking clue why.  
  
Nor, from the stunned look on his face, did Dennis.  
  
A part of me was amused to note that this was the second time this conversation that I’d apparently managed to render him speechless.  
  
The rest of me was just completely and utterly mortified.  
  
What the fuck was wrong with me?  
  
“I did apologise,” Dennis said, sounding surprisingly unsure of himself. It made him seem younger, somehow. “And I really didn’t mean any harm. I was just going to pat you on the head, that’s all. I wasn’t going to hurt you, Astrid.”  
  
“That wasn’t what meant,” I muttered, half-wishing the ground would open up and swallow me. “Look, just… forget it, okay. It’s fine. I’m just overreacting. I didn’t sleep well last night and I’m tired, which tends to make me a little short-tempered. So just… forget I said anything. Okay?”  
  
Dennis gave me an uneasy look. He took a breath as if he was going to say something, but then he just let it out in a sigh. He and Chris exchanged a glance I couldn’t interpret, and then Dennis looked at me again. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he grinned widely, even though there was still something cautious (angry? sad? uneasy? who the fuck knew?) in his eyes.  
  
“It’s already forgotten,” he assured me. His expression turned speculative, and I had a sudden feeling of impending doom to accompany the lingering embarrassment. (Not to mention the self-despite at being so fucking weak.)  
  
“What?” I asked suspiciously.  
  
“Oh, just wondering,” he said, with an air of innocence he had to have practiced in the mirror or something. “Did you have trouble sleeping last night because you couldn’t stop thinking about me?”  
  
“You are such a fucking **asshole** ,” I said, but I was more disbelieving than actually furious. Was this fucker actually serious? I told him I was feeling short-tempered, so he decided to needle me some more?  
  
And he called **me** masochistic.  
  
I shook my head and turned back to Chris.  
  
“That wasn’t a no,” Dennis murmured. I ignored him.  
  
Bastard.  
  
Chris gave me a rueful grin. “He is an asshole,” he said. “But he’s mostly harmless. Just try not to let him get to you.”  
  
“I’m right here, dude,” Dennis protested mildly. We both ignored him.  
  
“Easier said than done,” I muttered.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Chris said, sympathetically. “Trust me, I know.”  
  
I took a breath.  
  
“Alright, let’s give those holds a try.”  
  
Fuck knew I needed **something** to distract me, and I doubted I’d be able to concentrate on any work right about now. (And I wasn’t sure it was safe to play around with my power in my current mood while Dennis was within range. Which… pretty much meant when he was anywhere in the building. Or at least in the Wards HQ.)  
  
“Um, are you sure?” Chris fidgeted in place, shifting from foot to foot. “I mean, after what you said…”  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“It’s fine,” I said, firmly. “Like I said, it’s an entirely different context. I’m good to continue if you are.”  
  
“Well… okay,” he said hesitantly.  
  
“Good.” I nodded briskly, running through the possibilities until I settled on a good starting drill. I took my gloves off. Chris did the same, and we put them down next to the mat. “So,” I said, as we moved back into position. “Let’s say I grab you like this…”  
  
Unlikely as it seemed, Chris actually seemed to be worse at holds and breaks than he was at strikes. Not only did he seem reluctant to use any force whatsoever — no matter how many times I told him he wasn’t going to hurt me — he seemed to get really fucking distracted. I guessed Dennis’ commentary really wasn’t helping matters.  
  
Fuck, maybe I should just have gagged him. Or bodily thrown him out of here.  
  
(Or just smacked the everliving shit out of him.)  
  
No, that was probably a bad idea.  
  
Probably.  
  
All in all, this was pretty much an exercise in frustration for me. I just hoped it was doing something for Chris. God knew he needed the help.  
  
“But I don’t see why I really need to know this stuff,” he said, not for the first time. “I mean, I’ll be up on my hoverboard. No one’s going to get close to me. I have laser guns for a reason!”  
  
Was he really that fucking naive? Christ, why hadn’t Aegis knocked that out of him already? What was he thinking?  
  
But… It wasn’t my place to judge Aegis’ leadership style. So I’d just focus on doing what I could.  
  
“What if you get knocked off your board?” I asked, with what I thought was admirable patience. “What if someone breaks your fancy tinker tech, or takes it off you?” I looked him dead in the eyes, trying to impress upon him just how serious this was. “What if you get attacked in your civilian guise?”  
  
“No villain’s going to come after a hero’s civilian identity,” he said, giving a little, disbelieving laugh. “They wouldn’t dare. The last one who tried got capped by **Kaiser** , of all people. And the hero that got taken out wasn’t even backed by the Protectorate. If someone went after a Ward? They’d get flattened.”  
  
Fuck me.  
  
‘Villains.’ ‘Heroes.’ What did he think this was? A fucking game? But I didn’t feel ready to tackle that particular misapprehension right here and now, so I went for the low hanging fruit instead.  
  
“Doesn’t have to be a villain,” I told him, trying not to roll my eyes at the word. “People get attacked on the streets of Brockton Bay every fucking day. Because someone wants what they have. Because someone thought they looked at them crosswise. Because they walked into the wrong part of town. Because no damn reason at all other than that they were there. Someone can try to fuck you up without ever having the slightest inkling that you’re a goddamn hero.”  
  
“It’s not that bad, though,” he said, but he seemed to wilt a little as I continued to hold his gaze. “I mean, sure, there’s gang violence and stuff. And crime. But I don’t actually know anyone who’s been attacked on the street.”  
  
“You do now,” I said shortly.  
  
He blinked owlishly at me. “What? Why? When? What happened?”  
  
“Which time?”  
  
He froze. “You were attacked more than once?” His voice was faint.  
  
I almost shrugged, but remembered not to at the last minute.  
  
“It’s a risk you take when you hang around in the rougher parts of town.” Or, shit, even in the so-called better — that was to say, richer — parts. If you pissed off one of the petty thugs that called themselves private security contractors. Hadn’t happened to me yet, but I’d heard the stories. I’d wager all the poorer kids had. I made my voice stern, implacable. “But **I** know how to take care of myself. And you should, too. Because if you have to rely on your powers to defend yourself — or, in your case, your tech — then you’ve just blown your cape identity. And then you’re likely well and truly fucked.”  
  
(Fuck. I sounded like Dad.)  
  
(But… Was that such a bad thing in this case? For all his faults — and he sure as shit had those — his insistence that Lance and I should know how to fight wasn’t exactly something I held against him. It was a dangerous fucking world out there, after all.)  
  
“Okay, ease up, New Girl,” Dennis’ voice was jovial on the surface, but there was an edge to it; a note that I couldn’t quite interpret. “No need to scare the poor guy.”  
  
I swallowed back my instinctive: ‘Someone should,’ and tried to make myself relax a little. I even attempted a smile, although I wasn’t sure it came out quite right.  
  
“Sorry if I came on too strong,” I told Chris. “I just feel really strongly about this.”  
  
“I, uh, I can tell,” he said. He smiled back at me, kind of, but he still looked really fucking disturbed.  
  
I felt kind of bad about that. (I actually kind of liked that he was an idealist. I’d never really known any of those, and it was sort of… refreshing?) But someone had to open his eyes, or he was going to get hurt. (Even though I didn’t really know him, I didn’t want him to get hurt. Was that weak of me? To care about someone I didn’t even know? He was a team mate, though. So that had to count for something.)  
  
This still felt a fuck of a lot like kicking a puppy.  
  
“Do you want to continue?” I asked, a little uncertainly. “Or did you want to leave it here for now?”  
  
“Let’s continue for a bit,” he said, sounding determined, if not exactly enthusiastic. “I want to get that last one right.”  
  
“Great!” I said, my smile starting to feel a little more natural. “If it helps, you’re definitely improving.”  
  
Baby steps, maybe, but it was still progress of a sort. Anyway, I figured encouraging him wasn’t a bad move. If I wasn’t going to use Dad’s methods (and I **really** didn’t want to use Dad’s methods) then I had to find some way of motivating him. Maybe praise would work. It was certainly worth a shot.  
  
From the way Chris straightened up and grinned at me, flushing a little, I thought I might be onto something.  
  
“Really?” he said, a little shyly. “That’s kind of you to say. It doesn’t really feel like I’m improving, though.”  
  
“You are,” I assured him. “Now, I’ll show you the hold again, and then you can try it on me. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” he said.  
  
He really seemed to be making an effort this time, even though he still seemed a little distracted. And reluctant to actually use any real force.  
  
“I won’t break,” I told him a little while later, caught between amusement and irritation. “You can grip harder than that.”  
  
He looked down at where one of his hands was wrapped loosely around my wrist — my left wrist, because I wasn’t an idiot — wincing a little for some reason.  
  
“Are you sure?” he asked uncertainly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“I told you,” I said flatly, irritation overcoming my somewhat bitter amusement. “You won’t.”  
  
What the fuck was wrong with him? He was okay for a little while, seemed to actually be making some progress, and then he suddenly got hesitant again.  
  
“You heard the girl, Chris,” Dennis said, and I was tensing in annoyed anticipation even before he went on to say: “She wants it harder.”  
  
“Will you just fuck **off** already!” I snapped. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”  
  
“Not really, no,” he smirked. “I’m having plenty of fun right now. Although,” he said slyly. “Not as much fun as you two are having, I’m sure.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snarled at him.  
  
I broke free of Chris’ hold without really thinking about it, absently gripping and twisting his wrist before kicking his legs out from under him to drop him to the mat. To his credit, he barely yelped at all this time. But he also didn’t manage to break free. Nor did he manage to stop me grabbing him in the first place.  
  
“Remember what I told you, Chris,” I said, trying not to sound impatient. “You can’t afford to leave yourself vulnerable. The second I broke free, you should already have been moving.” I let him go and offered him an arm. Looking a little dazed, he let me help him up. “Take a moment to breathe,” I told him. “Grab a drink of water or something. And then we’ll try it again.”  
  
“Okay,” he said, wincing a little as he shook his wrist. I frowned after him as he went over to the drinking fountain. I hadn’t twisted his wrist **that** hard. Had it already been injured and he’d just not said anything?  
  
Putting that concern aside for the moment, I whirled on Dennis suddenly, taking a malicious pleasure in making him start at the movement.  
  
“Well?” I demanded. “Explain yourself!”  
  
I tried not to approve of the way he recovered easily from his surprise, fixing me with a lazy grin despite my clear annoyance. He really didn’t seem to have so much as one single fuck to give when it came to his personal safety.  
  
Fuck. I really, really, **really** didn’t want to like this asshole.  
  
“It’s quite simple,” he drawled. “All that intense, intimate physical contact. Putting your hands all over each other. All that adrenaline zipping round your system, quickening your breath and getting the blood pumping. You could almost say that sparring has a lot in common with certain other physical activities.” I froze, my eyes widening, too shocked at what he was saying to even blush. Dennis just smirked, the bastard. “Don’t you think so?” he asked lightly.  
  
Somehow, I managed to find my voice.  
  
“No I **don’t** fucking think so!” I really wished I didn’t sound quite so shrill and scandalised. Even if I **was** scandalised. “If you remember, the people I’ve sparred with most are my dad and my brother! The absolute last fucking thing I want is to think of sparring in **those** terms. That’s fucking **disgusting**!”  
  
God, I felt like I needed a shower.  
  
What the fuck was wrong with this asshole?  
  
Dennis winced. “Okay, that’s an unfortunate implication I hadn’t considered,” he admitted. “But when you’re sparring with someone who isn’t a relative, you have to admit that there are certain… parallels.” He looked past me and smirked. “Right, Chris?”  
  
I glanced back to see Chris looking like a deer caught in headlights. Fuck, I thought his cheeks might actually be redder than mine were right now. The tips of his ears were for sure. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, apparently trying to speak. On the third time, he actually found his voice.  
  
“Will you just stop?” he said faintly.  
  
“Just calling it like I see it,” Dennis said, shrugging carelessly.  
  
I took a deep breath.  
  
“Why do you have to try and make everything sound so fucking **sleazy**?” I growled. I pointed at him. “And if you say you’re ‘just calling it like you see it’ again, I swear to God I will fucking smack you.”  
  
“Hey, don’t smack the messenger,” he said, raising his hands as if in surrender. “I think it’s really interesting that you’re getting so worked up about this, though. Guess I must have struck a chord.”  
  
I drew breath to say something. I wasn’t sure exactly what that something was going to be, but there were pretty good odds it was going to be something unpleasant, anatomically unlikely and full of expletives. Before I could start venting, though, Chris cleared his throat.  
  
“Let’s just ignore him,” he said. “He’s trying to get a reaction.”  
  
And it was clearly fucking **working** , for both of us. But Chris was right. There was no point in giving the fucker exactly what he wanted.  
  
“Fine,” I said, tightly. “Let’s try that grip once more.”  
  
We practiced holds and breaks for a little while longer, doing our level best to pretend Dennis wasn’t there. Chris still seemed a little distracted, a little flustered, but he was trying. Maybe not hard enough, but he was trying. I told myself that it was unreasonable to expect him to catch up to my years of training in just one lesson, but it was still a little frustrating. Especially when he was supposed to be trying to break free and he just froze in place.  
  
Did he forget which way to move again?  
  
Keeping my irritation in check with an effort, I swept his legs out from under him and took him down to the mat. Maybe I took him down a little harder than I had been doing up until now, but it still wasn’t anywhere near what was normal for training. In lieu of giving him bruises to remember this fuck up by, I just pinned him in place. I was pretty confident he wasn’t going anywhere without my say-so. I had been expecting him to at least make an attempt to get free, though, no matter how futile. Instead, he just sprawled there beneath me, panting heavily, looking kind of… stunned.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
Hadn’t he been listening to me at all? Didn’t he realise what a terrible position this was for him to be in?  
  
Dammit! Had I just been wasting my time trying to teach him how to fight?  
  
“You need to try harder,” I told him, pleased that I managed to sound serious, rather than irritated. “This is not a position you ever want to be in when you’re in a fight. From here, I can do pretty much anything I want to you, and there’s not a lot you can do to stop me.” Not strictly true. If our positions were reversed, I was pretty confident I’d be able to get free. With his level of skill, though, he was pretty much fucked. And that was the important thing. “Do you understand?” He just stared at me. I frowned a little. Had he hit his head? “Chris?”  
  
“What? Oh, uh, yeah. I get it. I need to try harder.”  
  
“Good,” I said. I shifted off him and got to my feet, offering him a hand up. He lay there for a moment longer, still looking a little shell-shocked, before he let me help him up. I guessed I must have shaken him.  
  
The sound of slow applause startled me a little. I glanced over at Dennis with irritation, wondering what new assholery he’d come up with now.  
  
“Oh, well done, New Girl,” he drawled. “If you were hoping to try to motivate Chris to actually try to stop you manhandling him, then that really was the most epic of epic failures.”  
  
I frowned, as confused as I was irritated.  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
  
Dennis just smirked obnoxiously.  
  
“If you really don’t know, then I can’t possibly tell you. How about you try to figure it out for yourself?”  
  
“How about I smack you around until you just say what you fucking mean?” I growled, the last threads of my patience starting to fray, one by one. I had had it up to **here** with this asshole. If he thought he could just mock and needle me without any fucking consequences, he had another think coming.  
  
I started to advance on the fucker.  
  
“What’s going on here?”  
  
Fuck!  
  
My fury chased away by (fear) caution, I came to attention, turning to face Aegis as he approached the three of us, frowning.  
  
“Nothing much, oh glorious leader,” Dennis said airily, while I was still trying to figure out what the fuck to say. “Just Chris and the new girl having fun getting hot and sweaty together.”  
  
He wasn’t going to tell Aegis what I’d been about to do? Did that mean he hadn’t realised, or just that he wasn’t going to involve the team leader?  
  
I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or worried.  
  
I only belatedly realised what his words implied when Chris spoke up indignantly, his face flushed.  
  
“Don’t be an asshole, Dennis!” He glared at our offending — and offensive — team mate for a moment before turning to Aegis and sighing. “We were sparring,” he said, sounding a little awkward. “Astrid and I. She was teaching me how to break free if someone grabs me.”  
  
“I see,” Aegis said. He studied me, and I wondered what the fuck was going through his mind right now. “Well, that’s fine, I guess, as long as you’re careful.” Without warning, he suddenly spun on his heel to point at Dennis. (I only just managed not to flinch at the sudden movement.) “Don’t you dare say a word,” he said sternly.  
  
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dennis said, and even through my unease, I couldn’t help marvelling at the way he could sound so sinful one moment, and so innocent the next.  
  
Aegis kept his attention on Dennis, his eyes narrowing.  
  
“So,” he said thoughtfully. “If Astrid and Chris are sparring, I suppose that means you haven’t yet put in your time.”  
  
“Well, I’m not sure I’d exactly say that,” Dennis began, looking distinctly shifty. “I mean, I’ve certainly learned a lot watching them, and-“  
  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Aegis interrupted him, grinning a little. “Come on. You can spar with me.”  
  
“But-“  
  
“ **Now** , Dennis,” he said firmly, turning and striding towards one of the other mats.  
  
Dennis looked like he was about to say something, but then he sighed dramatically and shot a baleful look towards me and Chris.  
  
“This is all your fault,” he said accusingly. “I hold you two personally responsible.”  
  
“Serves you right for annoying us,” Chris retorted, grinning. Apparently he’d managed to recover his composure. “Anyway, you’d better get a move on. You wouldn’t want to keep Carlos waiting.”  
  
Dennis sighed again. “Tell my parents I loved them,” he pronounced melodramatically, and trudged off towards Aegis. I only relaxed when it looked like Aegis’ attention was fully diverted.  
  
“Will Dennis be okay?” I asked Chris, wishing I didn’t sound nearly so hesitant.  
  
“What? Oh, yeah. He just likes to exaggerate.” I thought the smile he gave me was supposed to be reassuring. “Carlos won’t push him too hard, don’t worry. He’s pretty good at controlling his brute abilities, and he holds back a lot when sparring with us mere mortals.” He looked curiously at me. “I’m a little surprised you’re so worried, considering how mad you seemed to be with him.”  
  
“I guess I don’t really tend to hold grudges,” I said tightly.  
  
Chris’ smile widened, and the look he gave me now seemed almost shy. “Well, I think it’s really nice of you,” he said softly.  
  
I had no fucking clue what to say to that. I didn’t think it was especially nice of me not to want a team mate to be disciplined. Even if the team mate in question **was** an asshole. But I didn’t really know how to say that.  
  
So, instead, I changed the subject.  
  
“Did Aegis tell you he wants me to shadow you on console duty tonight?” I asked instead.  
  
“Yes, he said something about it. Don’t worry, it’s not that hard. I’m sure you’ll pick it up pretty quickly.”  
  
“I hope so,” I said. I checked my watch. “Anyway, shall we leave it here for now? I need to shower, and I have a couple of things I want to take care of before the start of the shift.”  
  
(I had to get out of here. I didn’t know why, but I just couldn’t stay here any longer.)  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Chris said, and I honestly couldn’t tell if that was relief or disappointment in his voice. Maybe, weirdly, it was a little of both. “Um, thanks for the lesson.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” I told him, hoping the smile I gave him didn’t look too weird. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hit the showers. See you in the Hub.”  
  
“See you later,” Chris said.  
  
It was all I could do not to run as I gathered up my metal, my water bottle and my toiletry bag and headed into the showers. Once I was in there, and I’d established that I was alone, I all-but collapsed onto a bench, suddenly feeling completely drained of energy.  
  
Fuck.  
  
What was wrong with me?  
  
Was it Aegis’ presence? Was that why I’d just fled the gym like a fucking coward?  
  
Shit.  
  
I really was pathetic.  
  
I was being stupid.  
  
I was being weak.  
  
(And weakness was always punished.)  
  
I needed to get it together.  
  
I **would** get it together.  
  
It was probably just tiredness, that was all. All I needed was a good night’s sleep. A good night’s sleep, and I’d be back in control again.  
  
(I had to stay in control. I had to. Loss of control was always punished.)  
  
It would be fine. Everything would be fine. I’d be fine.  
  
(I was pretty fucking far from fine right now and I had absolutely no fucking idea why.)  
  
No more stupid outbursts. No more freezing when Aegis so much as looked in my direction. No more fucking flinching at every tiny little thing.  
  
(I had to be stronger than this. I had to be **better**.)  
  
I was strong.  
  
I was tough.  
  
I was a survivor.  
  
(No matter how weak I felt right now.)  
  
So it was time I started fucking acting like it.


	25. Agoraphobia 2.12

When I got to the monitoring station and saw Chris — no, Kid Win; he was on duty now, in costume, albeit without his helmet — already there, I had a moment’s brief panic thinking I was late. A quick check of my watch, however, showed that there was still a little while to go before the start of the shift.  
  
I would have got here earlier, but I’d been so on edge that I’d given in to the temptation to play with my power a little, sending it through the Wards HQ. Not changing anything, just studying it; layering more and more detail onto my mental map of the place. My template for it, I supposed. I’d ended up spending a little more time on that than I’d originally planned. But the action had helped to centre me in a way that nothing else today really had.  
  
(Well, nothing except reducing an empty juice carton to dust. That had done wonders for my mood. But I really didn’t want to think about that too hard.)  
  
Not even working out this morning, or sparring with Kid Win.  
  
Not that I would really call that sparring, but still.  
  
“Hi,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too awkward.  
  
“Hey, Astrid,” he said, smiling at me. “Pull up a pew.” He gestured at the station next to his. “It’s not quite showtime yet, but we might as well get comfortable. Want a snack?”  
  
He indicated the not inconsiderable array of junk food piled up on the desk. Although, I was a little surprised to notice that there were also a couple of apples and oranges there; a lone bastion of healthiness amidst a sea of high fructose corn syrup and E-numbers. I guessed his tolerance for artificial colours and flavours must actually have had a limit.  
  
“You’re allowed to eat on duty?” I asked, just to make certain. I guessed it wouldn’t really interfere with monitoring, but I hadn’t wanted to presume.  
  
“Yes, of course,” he said, giving me a peculiar look. “Why wouldn’t we be?”  
  
Because it could be distracting? Because certain standards of discipline were expected? Because the powers that be didn’t want the consoles left in a mess?  
  
Because it was just forbidden, for whatever reason?  
  
Was it really so strange to double check these things?  
  
“Just checking,” I said, feeling stupid. After all, he clearly thought it was okay to do so. And surely he wouldn’t break the rules so blatantly and egregiously while there was someone else around. It wasn’t like the snacks weren’t displayed clearly and visibly to anyone who so much as peeked through the door. Anyway, since it was allowed… “I think I’m going to go and make a coffee,” I told him. I was definitely feeling a little fuzzy around the edges and I couldn’t afford that if I was going to pay attention to what was involved in manning the console. “Do you want anything?”  
  
“No, I’m good, thanks,” he said. He was still eyeing me a little strangely, but he snagged a bottle of Dr Pepper from the table, holding it up like a trophy. “I have my caffeine fix right here.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll be back shortly.” I started to leave, but paused on the threshold. “Just to check, everything in the kitchen is fair game unless someone’s put their name on it, right?”  
  
“Right,” he said, and grinned. “Although feel free to help yourself to any of my stuff if you like. Not that I have all that much of my own stuff in there at the moment, but you’re welcome to what there is.”  
  
“Thank you,” I said, returning his smile. “See you in a few minutes.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I peered half-heartedly through cupboards, drawers and the fridge-freezer as I waited for my coffee to brew. There wasn’t actually all that much here, apart from snacks and drinks. I guessed that made sense considering that none of the other Wards actually lived here. Maybe when they did stay over, they just tended to eat in the canteen. I suspected I was going to get awfully tired of canteen food if I ate there all the time. Besides, I enjoyed cooking. Plus there were those experiments I wanted to try out to see how my sense of taste had been affected by my power.  
  
The trouble with that, of course, was that if I wanted to do any cooking, I was going to need something to cook. Which meant going shopping.  
  
(Which meant leaving the building.)  
  
(Which meant risking Dad getting his hands on me.)  
  
I didn’t have a whole lot of money to my name at the moment, but hopefully the PRT would sort out my bank account and pay advance in the next day or two. Then, maybe I would pick up a few things.  
  
(I tried to tell myself that he didn’t know where I was. Not yet, anyway. No doubt he’d figure it out when I made my debut as a Ward, but for now, hopefully he just thought I was in some ordinary group home somewhere, courtesy of CPS.)  
  
(Hopefully.)  
  
Apropos of nothing, I suddenly found myself remembering some of last night’s dreams. For a moment, I couldn’t quite catch my breath, but I shoved the feeling aside as best as I could.  
  
They were just bad dreams, that’s all.  
  
Dreams couldn’t hurt me.  
  
(For a horrible, heartstopping moment, I had a sudden, overwhelming rush of fear that **this** was the dream and **that** was the reality. That I’d never run in the first place. That I was still at home, trapped in the basement with my father, and this was just some kind of… of… delusion or hopeless fantasy.)  
  
(That I would never, ever escape.)  
  
My hands were shaking, I noticed with some bemusement. I clenched them into fists; made them stop. My right wrist twinged, my hands stinging a little as some of the healing cuts and scrapes and split knuckles pulled taut, but I welcomed the pain. It helped me to focus through this sudden fit of whatever-it-was.  
  
(It kept me here, reminded me that this was what was real.)  
  
(That I had got away from him.)  
  
(At least for now.)  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
What the fuck was wrong with me?  
  
I must have been more tired than I’d thought.  
  
Good job the coffee was almost done.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Kid Win looked up and smiled as I sat down next to him at the monitoring station and set my mug down on a coaster. I smiled back at him, hoping the expression didn’t look as half-hearted as it felt. For some reason, I didn’t really feel much like smiling at the moment.  
  
“So, is there anything I need to know before we start?” I asked him. I took off my messenger bag and retrieved my notebook and pen from it before setting it down on the floor by my bare feet.  
  
(I’d decided: fuck it. Chances were I was probably just going to end up splitting the soles of my shoes anyway. Why not save myself the trouble?)  
  
“Not really,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “We’ll be monitoring the police band and PRT channels, and keeping an eye on the CCTV feeds. Plus, obviously, keeping in touch with Aegis and Clockblocker via the comms. Basically, we’re looking for trouble.”  
  
That made sense, and fit with what Aegis had said during the briefing.  
  
“And when we find it, we brief the patrolling team and advise them on whether to engage?”  
  
“Essentially, yeah.” He leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes you have to coordinate with the PRT and Protectorate duty officers, or the emergency services, but that’s easier than it sounds.”  
  
It sounded pretty fucking intimidating, actually, but I’d just have to deal with it.  
  
At least the Protectorate duty officer wouldn’t be one of the capes. Shit, I was in no way ready to speak to someone like Miss Militia or, heaven forbid, Armsmaster. Not that I’d be the one speaking to them today, but still.  
  
Like I’d said: really fucking intimidating.  
  
Not least because I was used to thinking of these people as enemies. And now… Now I was one of them.  
  
(Fuck. I could never let them know the truth about me. Not ever.)  
  
If I remembered correctly from the overview, they had dedicated PRT liaisons based out at the Protectorate HQ. Which made sense, I supposed. Why waste one of the capes on monitoring duty when they could be out in the field?  
  
It was different for the Wards. Yes, they could have just had the PRT duty officer directly oversee Ward deployment, but part of the point of the Wards programme was to train us for joining the Protectorate. It made sense to teach us about information management, objective prioritisation and personnel deployment. It was also a good way to get a feel for the city and its trouble spots.  
  
There was nothing quite like hands on experience.  
  
It was why Dad had always involved me and Lance in his mission prep. Well, more me than Lance, I guessed, especially recently. Lance had much more field experience than I did, though, especially since his blooding. I mean, Dad had sent me out on some of the smaller, largely non-combat ops — I was pretty good at picking locks, and no one in his squad was faster than I was at hot-wiring a car. But when it came to combat missions, he tended to either keep me out of them altogether or limit my involvement to support roles like scout, lookout, or driver. Even field medic on occasion.  
  
(Some of those occasions had been… had been… bad.)  
  
(But I didn’t want to think about that right now.)  
  
(Anyway, at least the PRT had proper medical facilities. We wouldn’t have to rely on what first aid we could muster up between ourselves, plus the occasional visit to a back alley doctor for more severe injuries.)  
  
(I guessed there were some benefits to joining a government-sponsored cape team.)  
  
But I was getting distracted from the matter at hand.  
  
“How do you decide when to engage and when to hold back?” I asked. The course materials I’d gone through so far hadn’t really covered that. The focus had been more on how to handle things if you did have to engage.  
  
“Um, experience, I guess,” Kid Win said, sounding a little uncertain. “I mean, you’ll be given guidance and advice, and if you’re really unsure, you can always check with the PRT duty officer or someone. But generally, it’s just something you learn.”  
  
“I see,” I said. That was… more vague than I would like, but I guessed some things couldn’t really be taught.  
  
“Anyway, you don’t need to worry about that right now,” he said brightly. “Just watch what I do for the moment, and if you have questions, just ask. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” I said. I took a long drink of my coffee, hoping the caffeine would revive me. Actually, maybe eating something would also help. “Mind if I grab an orange?” I asked.  
  
“No, go ahead,” he said. He hesitated a moment, and then added: “I, uh, brought those out for you anyway. I remembered what you said about only snacking on fruit, so…”  
  
“Oh.” Touched by his consideration, I found myself smiling at him without even having to try. “Thank you. That’s really thoughtful.”  
  
He flushed for some reason, glancing down and fidgeting with an open packet of something that was no colour ever found in nature.  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said. “But it isn’t really a big deal.”  
  
“Well, I appreciate it,” I said firmly.  
  
Now I felt even worse about knocking him down earlier. I guessed he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge, though. Well, not unless this was part of some elaborate plot to lull me into a false sense of security so he could get his revenge on me. Somehow, though, he didn’t really seem like the type.  
  
I guessed he really was a puppy at heart.  
  
I scooped up an orange, but instead of peeling it the usual way, I had an idea. I studied it with my power for a short while, and then very carefully started severing bonds. When I was sure I’d severed enough of them, I hesitated for a brief moment, and then flared my power a final time.  
  
( _Open.)_  
  
It would have been more impressive if the peel had fallen apart in two neat halves, but alas it was too tight a fit for that. Still, I couldn’t help feeling pleased with myself as I rotated the fruit ninety degrees and lifted off the top half of the peel and pith like a lid, revealing the orange inside.  
  
Not bad for a first attempt.  
  
“Cool,” Kid Win said, watching as I shucked the rest of the peel.  
  
I could have left it there, but, well, for some reason I found I kind of wanted to show off a little. Mentally crossing my fingers that this didn’t backfire and end up showing the pair of us with orange juice, I focused my power on the pith holding the segments together. Carefully keeping in mind thoughts of scalpels and fine, sharp blades, I very carefully _cut_ …  
  
And the segments fell neatly apart in my hand.  
  
Yes!  
  
I was so relieved that had worked. I mean, in theory it should have. But theory and practice were often very different things.  
  
This was so very petty of me. I didn’t normally show off like this. But… I guessed I just wanted to try and impress my new team mate with my control over my power.  
  
Fuck knew I needed to do something to try to improve on the likely godawful impression I’d undoubtedly made on him so far.  
  
Trying to hide just how relieved I was that this hadn’t gone horribly wrong, I looked up and met Kid Win’s eyes, smiling in triumph.  
  
“Like I said: my power works on anything non-living.” I put the orange segments on a plate and placed it between us. Despite the urge to keep it all for myself — or perhaps in reaction to it, because I’d be damned if I would let my power dictate terms to me — I said, carelessly: “Help yourself, if you want.”  
  
“Thanks,” Kid Win said. I managed not to twitch when he took a segment. He didn’t eat it right away, though, turning it back and forth as if he was expecting to see some obvious sign that I’d used my power on it.  
  
“I only cut the pith and peel,” I said, between bites of orange. “As far as I can tell, the rest of it hasn’t been changed by my power at all.” I frowned. “Of course, I have no way of knowing if simply studying something with my power changes it in any way.” And wasn’t that a disturbing thought? That I could be changing things just by studying them, all unknowing. My frown deepened. “Maybe that’s something they’ll test during my power evaluation.”  
  
I half expected him to just discreetly chuck the orange segment, but instead he just shrugged and shoved the whole thing in his mouth.  
  
“Tastes alright to me,” he said after a moment. He smiled at me. “Anyway, there’s no point worrying about that right at the moment. You’ve had your power for, what, just over a week now?”  
  
“A week and a half,” I said shortly, tensing despite myself as I tried not to think about the day I’d triggered. Or about hell week.  
  
“Exactly,” he said, seemingly oblivious to my sudden change of mood. “If there were any problems, you’d probably have noticed by now. So I’m sure it’s fine.”  
  
I tried not to bristle at the reassuring tone in his voice, telling myself that he was probably just trying to be nice. I ate another orange segment, giving myself a chance to shove away my no doubt entirely unreasonable irritation before replying.  
  
“Thanks,” I said. I checked my watch, and took a breath. “Anyway, on a completely unrelated note, do we have time for you to take me through the monitoring equipment before the shift starts?”  
  
If talking about technical stuff didn’t distract a tinker, I didn’t know what the fuck else would.  
  
Anyway, this was information I needed to know.

  
“Oh, sure,” he said cheerfully. “I mean, it’s pretty straightforward, but I guess it can’t hurt to give you the rundown. Let’s start with the headset…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I had, I noted with some amusement, been entirely correct that asking about technical stuff was a good way of distracting a tinker. Or, at least, this particular tinker. That was useful to know. The system did seem quite straightforward, but that didn’t stop him going off at various tangents about possible improvements and upgrades and technical details that I couldn’t quite follow. Tinker speak, I assumed.  
  
His enthusiasm was actually kind of endearing.  
  
And, importantly, I didn’t have to say a goddamned thing. It was kind of nice, not having to worry about anything more than nodding in what I hoped were the right places. Almost… relaxing.  
  
As if that had been just the opportunity my tiredness had been waiting for, I suddenly found myself yawning. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. Kid Win stumbled to a halt.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbled, flushing and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, ah, tend to ramble on given half a chance. Feel free to tell me to shut up when that happens.”  
  
“You weren’t rambling,” I hastened to reassure him, feeling vaguely guilty for making him feel bad. “And I wasn’t bored, honestly. It was interesting.” I gave him a rueful smile. “I mean, I can’t say I understood every little detail, but I think I got most of it, and it was kind of interesting.” I’d already said that. Fuck, I was bad at talking to people. It didn’t help that I felt so fuzzy around the edges right now. I sighed softly, feeling subdued all of a sudden. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”  
  
I regretted saying that as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Kid Win studied me, frowning. I finished off my coffee, more to stop myself shifting restlessly under the scrutiny than for anything else. Although maybe the caffeine would actually start to kick in sometime soon. That would be nice.  
  
“You said earlier that you hadn’t slept well last night,” he said, hesitantly.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, my tone deliberately flat and uninviting. I had absolutely no fucking intention of talking about those stupid fucking dreams.  
  
“I guess it can be hard, being in a new place,” he said after a moment.  
  
That… had never been one of my issues. We’d moved around enough, the three of us, that I’d had to learn pretty damn fast to adapt to being somewhere new. And then there were the times we spent at the cabin, and other places like it. Training camps, basically. Places were we could work on things that were either not possible in the city (like survival skills), or would simply have drawn too much attention (like firearms training). Of all the things that could give me trouble sleeping these days, being in a strange bed didn’t even rate.  
  
(Although, this was the first time I’d successfully run away from home.)  
  
(The first time I’d left my family behind to throw my lot in with a bunch of strangers.)  
  
Hell, at least I had a bed.  
  
Not being able to sleep on my back was annoying, mind you, and I had startled myself awake a couple of times trying to roll over in my sleep, but that was something else I didn’t particularly plan on mentioning.  
  
So, in the end, I said the only thing I reasonably could have said.  
  
“Guess so.”  
  
Hopefully, that would be the end of the subject. Except… Except Kid Win was still looking at me, with that look of fucking concern on his face. I had a bad feeling about this even before he opened his mouth and said:  
  
“I could, uh, I could make you a nightlight or something. If you wanted. I mean, it wouldn’t have to be particularly complicated. It wouldn’t even take me long. I could probably repurpose some of my old laser components and stuff. Um, if you want, that is.”  
  
“A nightlight.” I enunciated the words very, very carefully, keeping my voice level and my whole body still.  
  
Despite the sudden temptation to smack him silly.  
  
A fucking nightlight? Seriously? Did he think I was some pathetic child who was afraid of the dark? Or of monsters under the fucking bed?  
  
(Monsters didn’t have to hide under the bed. And they were just as much at ease in the light as they were in the dark. They didn’t even have to look like monsters. They could be anyone, anyone at all.)  
  
(Even people you knew.)  
  
(Especially people you knew.)  
  
“Yeah,” he said, sounding uneasy all of a sudden. “I mean, you know, I was just thinking, if you woke up in the night, you’d see where you were right away, and you wouldn’t be, you know, disoriented, and I was just thinking, and anyway, it was probably a stupid idea, and you should probably just forget I said anything because, like I said, sometimes I ramble on without thinking and… And… Sorry.”  
  
I blinked, a little startled at his sudden babbling. And then I realised what my power was telling me, and…  
  
Fuck.  
  
I took a slow, deep breath, making my metal flow back to its resting place around my forearms as I deliberately unclenched my fists and relaxed my tense posture as much as I could.  
  
If I’d thought I’d felt guilty before, that was nothing to how I felt right now.  
  
Idealist.  
  
Right.  
  
He was just trying to be nice. He probably hadn’t been trying to call me weak, or pathetic, or childish. Even if he had just done exactly that. Unlikely as it seemed, he was probably just trying to help.  
  
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, when I was sure I’d gotten myself — and my power — under control again. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I’m sure you mean well, and I appreciate the thought, but…” I fumbled for the right words, but when they steadfastly refused to appear in my mind, I went with the best ones I could manage. Well, the least worst, anyway. “I’m sixteen years old. That’s a little fucking old for a nightlight, don’t you think?”  
  
Okay. Maybe I couldn’t keep the anger back completely.  
  
But, rather than wilting further like I’d expected, Kid Win actually sat up straight in his chair and met my eyes.  
  
Maybe he swallowed noticeably before he spoke, but still. He didn’t back off. He didn’t back down.  
  
Huh. Looked like the idealistic puppy did have a spine after all. Maybe that meant he wasn’t worthless.  
  
Fuck.  
  
 **Fuck**.  
  
Those weren’t my words, even if they were in my voice. They were my fucking father’s.  
  
Because even if Kid Win had been weak, that wouldn’t mean he was worthless.  
  
Weak people were still people, and people weren’t worthless, no matter who or what they were.  
  
They weren’t.  
  
No matter what my goddamn father said.  
  
(I wasn’t worthless, was I?)  
  
(Even if I was so terribly afraid that I really was weak.)  
  
Hellfire and fucking damnation.  
  
What the hell did I have to do? I tried so fucking hard, but if my attention slipped even for a moment, if I got careless, there he fucking was, lurking in the back of my mind like a spider.  
  
Maybe I never would be free of his poison.  
  
No. No, I couldn’t believe that. I wouldn’t.  
  
I had to keep trying.  
  
And if I failed, then I’d just have to try harder in future.  
  
That was all there was to it.  
  
“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Kid Win said earnestly, apparently not noticing my distraction. I tried to make myself focus on his words. “It isn’t…” He sighed. “Look, I know you’ve been through a lot, and I just thought this was something I could do that might help. Make you feel a bit more at home, you know?” He shrugged, looking a little rueful. “I’m a tinker. I tend to think in terms of making stuff. Even if it isn’t necessarily always the best solution.” He sighed again, slumping back into his seat. “Dammit. I just seem to keep putting my foot in it with you, don’t I? First Sunday, and now this. You must think I’m a terrible person.”  
  
I blinked at him, a little bewildered. He thought he kept putting his foot in it? I was the one who kept upsetting people, or making them feel awkward as fuck.  
  
(Or pissing them off.)  
  
“Sunday?” I asked, confusedly. “I… don’t know what you mean.”  
  
“Oh. Um.” He looked away, lowering his voice until I could barely hear it. “When I asked if you’d been doing the independent hero thing.” He glanced back at me, his eyes flicking over the bruises on my arms and face. He winced. “I’m really sorry.”  
  
I tried to collect my scattered thoughts.  
  
“That’s okay,” I said. I couldn’t quite bring myself to smile, but I hoped I could at least manage to sound sincere. “You didn’t know.” Honestly, I hadn’t even thought about it since then. I’d had other, more pressing thoughts to occupy my mind. “Anyway,” I said, trying to lighten my tone a little. “At least it got the subject out of the way. So, there’s that.”  
  
It had given me the opportunity to sell my cover story. Even if that did mean letting them all think I was a fucking victim. But if I thought about that too hard I was just going to get mad again, and that was the absolute last thing I wanted right now.  
  
“I guess,” he said, after a moment.  
  
I took that as a sign to continue.  
  
“Look,” I said. “I know I was out of line, reacting like that. I’m just… I guess I’m a little on edge today.” Understatement of the fucking century. “Not that that’s really an excuse.” I managed to dredge up a smile after all, even though the expression felt a little strange on my face. “You want to reconsider taking that shot at me?”  
  
“What?” He stared at me with what looked like horror. “No! Why would you even…?” He shook his head. “Are you serious?”  
  
Well, fuck. That… did not have the intended effect. Not at all.  
  
“I was joking,” I tried to assure him.  
  
It was… mostly true.  
  
(Well, sort of true.)  
  
(Well, a little bit true.)  
  
(I had upset him, after all. Maybe even scared him. And I hadn’t even meant to, not really.)  
  
(I’d fucked up.)  
  
(And when I fucked up, I deserved to be punished.)  
  
(It was that simple.)  
  
He looked at me, frowning, started to say something, and then startled as an alarm chimed from his workstation.  
  
“Damn. That’s the five minute warning. Time to start setting up.” He hesitated, looking at me like there was something he really wanted to say. I tensed in anticipation, but the end he just sighed and reached for the headset attached to his computer. “You’ll need to log into the workstation, and then I’ll walk you through accessing the system. Here’s hoping they set up your permissions correctly.” He gave me a half-hearted grin. “Otherwise it’s going to be a pretty pointless exercise.”  
  
“Here’s hoping,” I murmured, and then followed his instructions.  
  
Saved by the fucking bell, I guessed.  
  
But somehow, I had the uneasy feeling that this conversation was far from over.  
  


*  *  *  *  *

 

It was kind of interesting, shadowing Kid Win on monitoring duty. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d just tried to ignore my presence as best as he could, but he actually took the time to explain things, even answering the million and one questions I must have asked him. I ended up taking a lot of notes.  
  
Things actually seemed relatively quiet in the city today, at least as far as parahuman-related disturbances went. I was almost surprised, given last night’s clash between the Empire and the PRT/Protectorate. But then, maybe that was why it was quiet. Maybe people were keeping their heads down in the aftermath.  
  
Which reminded me, I should ask if any of the others knew what had happened. Perhaps when the shift was over.  
  
In the meanwhile, I continued to observe my team mate at work. I also continued to study the Wards HQ with my power. And shape my metal into first simple, and then gradually more complex structures. After all, I figured I might as well make use of my new, improved multitasking ability.  
  
“You’re good at this,” I observed, after Kid Win finished talking to a police officer. Clockblocker and Aegis had intervened what seemed to be a drunken brawl on the Boardwalk, and some of those involved had been taken into custody.  
  
I guessed that probably meant those people hadn’t been tourists. Or rich.  
  
“Not really,” Kid Win demurred, but he seemed pleased, smiling at me and flushing a little.  
  
“You are,” I said, meaning it. “I don’t think I could manage to sound so calm and confident when dealing with someone like that.”  
  
The police officer had not been pleased to be dealing with teenagers, and he hadn’t been particularly shy about making that known. Somehow, though, Kid Win had not only managed to not get riled up in response — something I really wasn’t sure I could have done in his place — he’d even defused the tension somewhat, remaining cheerful, yet professional; being respectful without being overly deferential. It was a tricky balance to strike and, he made it seem easy.  
  
I knew that was deceptive, though. Talking to people just wasn’t that easy, at least not for me.  
  
“Well, thank you,” he said, his flush deepening a little. He glanced down, and then leaned forward a little, looking thoughtful. I followed the direction of his gaze; he was looking at my metal. It was currently in the form of a cat’s cradle kind of structure; a three dimensional cage of wires that split and split again into ever finer strands. “What are you doing?” he asked, curiously.  
  
“Practicing my fine control,” I said, feeling a little self-conscious. “I’m still paying attention, don’t worry. My power seems to include some kind of multitasking ability.”  
  
“I hear that’s not uncommon,” he said, and gave me a wry grin. “Kind of wish mine did.”  
  
“At least you get to make cool things,” I said. “That’s got to count for something.”  
  
“It does,” he said. “And that’s awesome.” But his smile seemed to fade a little. I thought about asking what was wrong, but before I could find the words, he glanced at the monitor, sat back up in his seat and adjusted his headset. “Just a heads up, guys,” he said. “Break time is nigh.”  
  
“About damn time,” came Clockblocker’s voice over the comms.  
  
“Thanks for the reminder,” Aegis said. “See you in half an hour.”  
  
“Catch you on the flip side,” Kid Win said, and took off his headset.  
  
I looked at him, a little taken aback. Returning my metal to quiescence, I took off my own headset. “You get a half hour break?”  
  
They got breaks at all?  
  
“Two of them per shift,” he said, nodding and giving me a small smile.  
  
Two half hour breaks in a five hour shift? Fuck, they really were coddled.  
  
“I… see,” I said, trying not to show my surprise. Judging by the way Kid Win suddenly frowned at me, however, I didn’t think I was entirely successful.  
  
“Wait,” he said, slowly. “You didn’t think we got breaks?”  
  
“It never really came up,” I said. “Well, I guess maybe it did during the whole ‘this is what being a Ward involves’ spiel, but I know I wasn’t really taking everything in by the end of it.” I sighed softly. “Monday was kind of a long day for me. At least it felt like it.”  
  
Fuck. Today was starting to feel like a really fucking long day, too.  
  
“I can imagine,” he said softly, and… Shit. Now he was back to being fucking concerned again. And sympathetic. I was starting to think I almost preferred the awkward discomfort. Maybe. Given my druthers, I’d take neither, but with my conversational skills it seemed I was pretty much guaranteed to hit one or the other every time I opened my fucking mouth.  
  
Maybe I should just take a goddamn vow of silence.  
  
To try and distract myself from the awkwardness, I started gathering up some of the empty packets and other detritus from around the workstations.  
  
“Oh, um, you don’t have to do that,” Kid Win said, sounding a little startled. He laughed a little. “It’s mostly my mess, anyway.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” I said. I attempted a small smile. “Besides, it’s the least I can do after you’ve so graciously put up with me bothering you with all those questions.”  
  
Not to mention making things awkward. And getting pissed off at him when he was trying to be nice.  
  
“You’re not bothering me, not at all,” he said quickly, and smiled back at me. “It’s nice to have a little company.”  
  
“Oh. Well, good,” I said, sounding stupid and awkward to my own ears.  
  
I looked around for a trash can, and went to dump the rubbish into it. On a whim — mainly because I was hoping it would help to steady me a little, because I sure as shit needed to do something about my mood — I disintegrated the rubbish, letting the fine dust sift down into the trash can.  
  
“Why did you do that?” Kid Win asked curiously,  
  
(Because I needed to do something to try to defuse this restlessness that was building up inside me.)  
  
(Because, on some level, I just wanted to break something. And I really didn’t want that something to be a someone.)  
  
(Because it felt really fucking good.)  
  
“Why not?” I replied, stopping myself from shrugging. A thought struck me, though, and I tried not to slump. “Although I should probably have separated out the recyclables first. I’ll try to remember for next time.”  
  
“Just this once won’t hurt,” he said, and there was that reassuring tone again. Did I really seem like the kind of person who needed to be reassured all the time?  
  
Whatever. Hopefully he’d learn soon enough that I wasn’t the weak, fragile thing he obviously thought I was.  
  
In the meantime, though, I had more important concerns.  
  
“I’m going to get another coffee. Do you want anything from the kitchen?”  
  
“No, I’m good, thank you.” He gave me a wry grin. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to sleep tonight if you keep drinking coffee?”  
  
“I’m more concerned with not falling asleep at the workstation,” I told him, dryly. Not that I really thought I was going to sleep, but I didn’t like feeling like my mind was wrapped in cotton wool.  
  
“You know, you don’t have to stay for the whole shift,” he said. “If you’re that tired, maybe you should just try to get some rest.”  
  
(‘Did I say you could stand down, girl? No? Then why the fuck were you sleeping at your post? If this wasn’t an exercise, you’d be dead right now. As it is, you’re just going to wish you were.’)  
  
Suddenly, I was wide awake.  
  
“No, that’s fine,” I said, locking my workstation, picking up my mug and my bag and turning to head for the kitchen. “Anyway, I was exaggerating. I’m not really about to fall asleep on you. I just fancied some more coffee, that’s all.”  
  
I hoped that would be the end of it, but Kid Win actually followed me into the kitchen, watching as I set about making my coffee.  
  
“I’m sure Aegis wouldn’t mind,” he said, sounding a little uncertain. “He probably didn’t mean for you to shadow me for the whole shift. But you could check with him over the comms if you want, I guess.”  
  
And let him think I wasn’t up to the task he’d assigned me?  
  
(And let him think I was being disobedient? Or, worse, that I was being weak?)  
  
(And give him an excuse to discipline me?)  
  
Fuck. That. Noise.  
  
“Really, it’s fine,” I said, trying to sound believable. It shouldn’t be this hard. It was true, after all. It was fine. I was completely up to this. It was just a little tiredness, that was all. It was nothing I couldn’t handle. Hell, I’d had to stay functional on far less sleep than this before. I was opening my mouth to say that, when I hesitated. Maybe… Maybe it was best not to raise the subject. It would probably just bring questions that I had absolutely no fucking intention of answering. Instead, I brought up something that had been nagging at me. “Unless you’d rather not have me around?”  
  
I could certainly understand it if he felt that way. I wasn’t exactly great company even at the best of times, and this was very definitely not the best of times.  
  
“What? No!” he said, his eyes widening in an almost comic expression of surprise, although unlike with Clockblocker, I didn’t think it was deliberately exaggerated. “I like having you around. I mean, you’re not bothering me at all. Like I said: it’s nice to have some company.” He paused, and gave me a hesitant smile. “Don’t feel like you need to leave on my account.”  
  
“Oh. Good.” I didn’t really know what else to say to that. Still, at least he’d stopped talking about me trying to duck out on the rest of the shift.  
  
Silence fell for a short while, much to my relief. I got myself a glass of water.  
  
“Does your power work on liquids?” Kid Win asked, apropos of nothing. Not that I minded. At last: something I could talk about without fucking up and sticking both feet squarely in my mouth.  
  
Although, maybe I shouldn’t jinx myself like that. After all, if anyone could manage to turn answering a simple question about their power into a goddamn minefield, it would be me.  
  
I was fucking talented like that.  
  
“Yes, but not as well,” I told him. I took a sip of water, exploring it with my power before I swallowed and it vanished from my senses. “I can sense them, although the structures are kind of…” What was the word? “Fuzzy.” To touch, anyway. Not so much to taste — weirdly, that was actually just as clear as with solids — but I didn’t particularly feel the need to share the fact that my power also worked by taste. “It definitely takes more effort to manipulate the bonds.” I could still do it, but it took time and concentration, and I could only really affect the part that was in contact with my skin. “Maybe that’s something that will improve with practice.”  
  
I could only hope.  
  
“That does tend to happen,” he said. “I mean, there are usually are hard limits to what you can do, but there are definitely things you can work on.”  
  
My coffee was ready. I decanted it into my mug, and made my way out of the kitchen, Kid Win ambling along with me.  
  
“I do seem to have improved a lot since my trigger event.” But then, I guessed I had been really fucking motivated. “But it’s still a work in progress. I have some ideas, though.”  
  
“You know about trigger events?” He sounded surprised for some reason.  
  
I gave him a curious look. “Doesn’t everyone?”  
  
I mean, I knew because Dad had told me.  
  
(He’d talked about Gesellschaft’s experiments into artificially inducing triggers.)  
  
(He’d said… He’d said that Lance and I already had the potential, and that all we needed was a little push.)  
  
(And yet, despite his best efforts — and he’d tried so very fucking hard — none of it had worked.)  
  
But I was sure I’d seen the phrase crop up on PHO here and there, now and again. So I just assumed it was common knowledge. But maybe that had been a faulty assumption.  
  
Well, shit. Apparently I really could turn any conversational topic into a minefield. I’d blame my power but, honestly, it really wasn’t anything new for me.  
  
Kid Win was still giving me a really fucking strange look as we entered the monitoring room. He grabbed some snacks and a drink from the table and started to head out again, pausing when he realised I wasn’t joining him.  
  
“I thought we could go and sit on the sofa,” he said, hesitantly. “It’s certainly more comfortable than those chairs.”  
  
“I was going to work through some more of the new Ward course stuff,” I replied, feeling a little uncertain. “There’s a lot to get through, and I wanted to get a head start on it before I meet the course tutor.”  
  
“No one’s going to expect you to get through it all in one day,” he said, smiling at me. “Anyway, we’re supposed to be taking a break.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean I can’t do something useful.”  
  
Why was everything such a goddamned struggle with these people? Why did it feel like I had to justify myself at every turn?  
  
“I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what it means,” he said, laughing a little.  
  
The fuck? He was laughing at me? I bristled, choking back my instinctive, angry response as I settled stiffly into my seat and logged into back into my workstation.  
  
“I’d rather get this done while I have the chance,” I said, and if my voice was a little stiff and cold, well, that was probably better than swearing a blue streak at him. Or worse.  
  
I set my bag down, took a drink of coffee, and got to work.  
  
Kid Win dithered in the doorway for a few moments — I felt a little antsy, having him at my back, especially with his laser guns — and then came back into the room, sitting back down at his own workstation. I gave him a sidelong glance, wondering why he hadn’t gone off to make himself comfortable. He smiled, but he looked a little wary.  
  
“I was thinking of checking the PHO forums, but I didn’t want to be antisocial,” he explained. “But if you’re going to be working anyway, I didn’t think you’d mind.”  
  
Fuck. Was he saying I was being antisocial? I mean, maybe he wasn’t exactly wrong, but I didn’t think it was a bad thing to want to get on with some work while I had a chance.  
  
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” I said after a moment, feeling not unlike I was walking blindfolded through uncertain territory. Fuck. I didn’t want to piss him off. And… I kind of didn’t want to upset him, either. “There’s just a lot to do.” For some reason, I found myself adding: “And I’m used to keeping busy.”  
  
“You weren’t being rude, don’t worry,” he assured me. There he went, being nice again.  
  
I seriously did not understand this guy.  
  
We both concentrated on our respective monitors in silence for a while.  
  
“Hey,” Kid Win said, after a while. “Did you know there’s video of you on here?”  
  
“What?” I asked, startled. And more than a little worried.  
  
“From the Boardwalk,” he explained. “Oh, it doesn’t show your face, don’t worry. The PHO moderators wouldn’t leave anything like that on there.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, still feeling kind of uncomfortable.  
  
No, actually, not kind of. I felt really fucking uncomfortable knowing that was out there for anyone to see. I’d noticed at the time that there’d been people pointing their phones in my direction, but what with one thing and another, I hadn’t really thought about it in the intervening time. But now…  
  
The very thought of it was making my skin crawl.  
  
It wasn’t even about the risk of someone being able to identify me. It was the fact that everyone and their dog being able to see the moment when I fucking **broke**.  
  
“Do you want to see it?” he asked, brightening a little.  
  
No. Yes. I didn’t know.  
  
“Sure,” I said, after a moment.  
  
“Okay, give me a sec…” He fiddled around with a few things. “And, here we go.”  
  
It was… It was really fucking weird, watching myself. Well, not that I was all that visible — Kid Win had been right about that — just a blurry figure amidst a mass of warped and twisted wood. At least until she — I — turned the wood to splinters. And then I ran.  
  
Huh.  
  
That wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, I guessed. But I still wasn’t happy with it being up there. Not even a little. I tried not to show it, casting around instead for something relatively innocuous that I could say.  
  
“I wasn’t trying to destroy the wood,” I said, quietly. “I was trying to reshape it.” I sighed, feeling that frustration all over again. “Turns out that my power is limited by the properties of whatever it is I’m trying to manipulate. And wood’s just not that malleable.”  
  
“That’s why you carry that metal around?” he asked, looking at my forearms. “So you have something you know you can use?”  
  
“Yeah.” I hesitated a moment, and then added: “Glass is also pretty easy, but it’s less useful.” I almost said ‘as a weapon,’ but I managed to bite those words back before they left my mouth. Probably just as well.  
  
He frowned. “Isn’t it heavy?”  
  
“Not that heavy,” I said.  
  
“I, uh, guess you are pretty strong,” he said, flushing for some reason.  
  
“For a girl, anyway,” I muttered.  
  
It pissed me off so much that Lance was so much stronger than I was without even needing to work at it. Not that he didn’t work at it, but I worked my fucking ass off every goddamn day, and it was never, ever going to be enough. It was so fucking frustrating. Maybe I was stronger than a lot of guys my age, but not all of them. Not by a long fucking shot. Even without powers to consider, there was always going to be someone stronger.  
  
Always.  
  
But that just meant I had to be prepared to fight dirty.  
  
“I’m… pretty sure you’re stronger than me,” he said, his flush deepening. I wondered if he was embarrassed at how easily I’d been able to immobilise him.  
  
Anyway, I should fucking hope I was stronger than him. Between our relative builds, plus how surprised he’d been about me working out every day… Yeah.  
  
“If that’s something you want to work on, you could always train more,” I said, for want of anything better to say. “I could help you put together an exercise programme if you want.”  
  
“Um, thanks for the offer,” he said, looking a little intimidated. “But I don’t really think that’s for me. I’m, uh, not really much into the whole working out thing.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” I murmured.  
  
“But… if you have time, and if you don’t mind,” he continued, looking giving me a hesitant smile. “I’d… kind of like for you to teach me some more about hand to hand fighting. If that’s okay. If you don’t mind. Um, no pressure or anything. Just a thought.”  
  
Huh. Well, that was… unexpected. I would’ve thought that was the last thing he would’ve wanted. Despite my best efforts, I hadn’t exactly been all that gentle with him. And he hadn’t seemed to think he needed to know the kinds of things I could teach him.  
  
“I don’t mind,” I said, slowly. “But wouldn’t you be better off just asking one of the combat trainers for some one on one tuition? I mean, I’ve never really taught anyone before.”  
  
“But you’re good at it,” he said, with way more enthusiasm than the sentiment really warranted. And way less accuracy, honestly. I didn’t think a good teacher would have gotten nearly as frustrated as I had. “It made sense, the way you explained it.”  
  
“That’s kind of you to say,” I muttered, feeling a little uncomfortable. “But… you realise I’m used to training very differently to the way you seem to do things here, right?”  
  
“I guess.” He looked uncertain for a moment, but then brightened again. “I’m sure you’ll adapt, though.”  
  
He looked weirdly hopeful. I… guessed I’d managed to impress on him that close quarters combat skills were useful to have. And I didn’t want to kill this sudden — if unexpected — enthusiasm right off the bat, so I found myself nodding.  
  
“Okay, I guess,” I said. “If you really want. But only if you work more with one of the real combat trainers as well.” I smiled, but I had a feeling the expression was a little more uncertain than I would have liked. “Better make sure I’m not teaching you any bad habits.”  
  
“I’m sure you won’t,” he said, and his own smile seemed effortless and unaffected. “I guess you’re probably going to be fairly busy over the next couple of weeks, but… maybe after that?”  
  
“Sure,” I said.  
  
I really hoped I didn’t fuck this up. I wasn’t kidding about never teaching anyone before. I didn’t know the first thing about it. I mean, I knew how Dad taught me, but that… I didn’t want to do that. Maybe I could research other kinds of teaching techniques. There must be something online; some kind of guide maybe. Or maybe I could ask the PRT combat instructors for pointers. Maybe both.  
  
Fuck. Maybe this was a mistake. But I couldn’t exactly back out now, not when I’d already agreed.  
  
Maybe he’d forget about it.  
  
Maybe it would be for the best if he did.  
  
I glanced over at him, a little startled to see him studying me with… Yep, there was that concern again. He really did show what he was feeling all over his face, didn’t he? Kind of like me, if I didn’t make sure to control my expressions and my body language.  
  
I almost asked him what he was thinking, but decided to wait him out. Maybe he’d think better of whatever it was he was gearing up to ask. Maybe.  
  
Somehow, though, I didn’t think I was that lucky.  
  
“Earlier, when you said I could hit you. Um, did you really mean it? Like, really?”  
  
Had he decided to take me up on it? But… no. That really wasn’t the read I got from him right now. I didn’t… He didn’t come across as a threat to me at all. Which was stupid, because he was a cape, and capes were always threats. But did I think he was likely to try and beat the shit out of me with his own two hands? No; no I didn’t.  
  
Not that he would have had much of a chance against me like that, but that wasn’t the point.  
  
“Yes,” I said, shortly, meeting his eyes.  
  
This was not a conversation I really wanted to have, but fuck it. He wanted to know, and I was just too fucking tired to dissemble. Let it be awkward and weird and uncomfortable. Maybe if it got bad enough, he wouldn’t fucking ask me anything else in future.  
  
Besides, it wasn’t like this was that big a deal. Seriously. It wasn’t like I’d offered to let him beat me senseless; just take one free shot. What was his fucking problem?  
  
He blinked at me for a moment or too, apparently completely taken aback by my answer.  
  
“But… why?”  
  
“Because I hurt you.”  
  
“You didn’t really,” he said, flushing and fidgeting in his seat.  
  
I gave him a deeply sceptical look. “I knocked you down. And I know how hard I hit you.”  
  
Not that Lance didn’t hit me much harder than that when we fought, or even just sparred. Not that I didn’t give as good as I got, to the best of my ability. But it was… It just didn’t feel right, doing that to Kid Win.  
  
Probably because it had been an accident.  
  
(My wrist twinged again as I remembered Dad’s lesson on the importance of control.)  
  
(I felt the shadow of that implacable pressure on my throat, even just the memory of it making me feel so fucking helpless.)  
  
(I shoved the memories and the feelings aside, buried them as deep as I could.)  
  
(I had the horrible feeling that it wasn’t deep enough.)  
  
“You didn’t mean to, though,” he said.  
  
“That makes it worse.” I said the words without thinking, wondering if I’d made a horrible mistake when he scrutinised me like I was some devices he was trying to take apart; to see what made it tick. I wondered what it was he saw.  
  
(I felt… exposed. Uncomfortable. Like I wanted to lash out.)  
  
(I tried to ignore those feelings, tried to tell myself that he wasn’t an enemy.)  
  
(It helped a little, but not as much as I would’ve hoped.)  
  
“What do you mean?” he asked softly.  
  
Wasn’t it obvious?  
  
I fumbled for words, despairing at the thought of finding the right ones; merely hoping that I didn’t fuck this up too badly.  
  
“Control is important,” I said. “I was pissed off at Clockblocker, so I let my control slip. I hit you harder than I meant to. That wasn’t acceptable.” I really wanted to shrug. It really pissed me off that I couldn’t. Well, I could, but it would just be a really bad idea. Oh, fuck it. I shrugged carefully, keeping the movement as smooth as I could. (I barely had to bite my tongue at all.) “Seemed like the easiest way to make up for it was to let you take a shot at me.”  
  
“Did you really think I would?” He sounded hurt now. “Do you think I’m the kind of person who would hit someone because they made a mistake?”  
  
Fuck, he sounded really upset.  
  
Goddammit! I really fucking sucked at this.  
  
I sighed, thinking about the question and how to answer it.  
  
“No,” I said, some stupid compulsion to honesty making me add: “Not now.”  
  
“But you did then?” he asked, still sounding distressed.  
  
It still felt like kicking a puppy, only this time the puppy was sad to begin with. Probably from a previous kicking.  
  
I took a breath, trying to get my thoughts in order.  
  
“I don’t know you,” I said softly. “I don’t know any of you.” My voice gained strength as I continued, my frustration leaking through despite my efforts to keep my tone level and even. “I have no fucking clue what to expect here. I’ve left behind everything I’ve ever known, and I’m just trying to figure out a way to get through this without fucking up too badly. Working out other people’s motivations is a little bit beyond me right now. All I can do is judge by what I know, and what I know is…”  
  
I broke off and sighed, looking down at my hands. My fighter’s hands, with all their cuts and callouses and scrapes and scabs and scars. I flexed my fingers, wondering what Kid Win saw when he looked at me. What any of them saw. I really had no fucking clue.  
  
I glanced over at Kid Win, surprised to see that he was studying my hands. Suddenly feeling really self-conscious, I folded them in my lap. He met my eyes, and I could not for the life of me read the expression on his face.  
  
“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” I told him, hoping he believed me. “It just…” I took a breath. “It made sense to me, that’s all.”  
  
He frowned, taking a drink of his Dr Pepper. Was it to give himself time to think? Or was it just because he was thirsty?  
  
Would I ever reach a point when I understood any of these people enough not to end up second-guessing every little thought about their motivations? Fuck, I hoped so. This was fucking exhausting.  
  
“I’m not insulted,” he said, eventually. “I was a little upset, but that’s not your fault.” He sighed. “I just… Do you get why I think it’s messed up, though?”  
  
I thought about it.  
  
“Is it because I’m a girl?”  
  
Some guys did have problems with hitting girls, I knew. Not that I’d met all that many of those in my life so far. It didn’t really make sense to me, though, especially considering that I was a better fighter than many of the guys I’d known.  
  
Anyway, female capes outnumbered male ones, in general. Any male cape who had trouble fighting women was going to find themselves up shit creek without a paddle unless they changed their tune pretty damn sharpish. Frankly, I was shocked that fucker Marquis had lasted as long as he had, given his purported ‘chivalry’.  
  
(But now we were back to things I didn’t want to think about.)  
  
“No,” Kid Win said, only to flush and amend that to. “Well, yes, a bit.”  
  
I shook my head, caught between amusement and irritation.  
  
“Do I need to remind you that I’m physically stronger than you are?”  
  
His eyes went wide, his face flushing bright red all the way up to the tips of his ears.  
  
“Um, no. No, I haven’t forgotten that.” He coughed and looked away, sounding embarrassed.  
  
I sighed, cursing my foot in mouth syndrome.  
  
“I’m not threatening you.”  
  
I wasn’t even pissed off at him, not really. Just mildly frustrated, I guessed. What did I have to do to be taken seriously as a threat around here? I remembered Clockblocker telling me I was cute when I tried to be intimidating, and then I suddenly really was pissed off. How fucking dare he?  
  
(And how fucking dare he actually be fucking funny on occasion? Not to mention having that whole ‘acting blasé while deliberately needling the girl who’s obviously down to her very last shreds of self-control’ thing going on. I… kind of had to respect that.)  
  
(No matter how little I wanted to.)  
  
(Asshole.)  
  
“I didn’t think you were,” Kid Win hastened to reassure me. I studied him and, well, he didn’t actually seem scared, I guessed. A little flustered, maybe, but not scared.  
  
Well, whatever.  
  
“I was just trying to say that I’m not fucking fragile. You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass.”  
  
It was kind of a relief to say that out loud, even if I couldn’t put it quite that bluntly to the person I really wanted to say it to: Aegis. How could I make the team leader see that I could be an asset, not a liability?  
  
(How could I make him see that I wasn’t weak?)  
  
“That’s not it,” Kid Win said. “I don’t think you’re fragile, not at all.” He sounded so… so earnest. So sincere. I didn’t know how to respond to that. “It’s just… I’m probably not putting this very well, but I don’t think it’s right to hurt someone for making a mistake. And it’s… It’s kind of messed up that you think that’s okay. And it’s kind of messed up that you thought I’d think that was okay. I’m a hero, Astrid. That’s not what heroes do.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
He really seemed to believe that.  
  
Like he wasn’t just saying it because he had to.  
  
Like it was what he really and truly thought.  
  
How the hell had he survived this long with that kind of naivety?  
  
Why hadn’t his parents knocked it out of him? Why hadn’t his team leaders?  
  
Shit, hadn’t he ever been disciplined for fucking up?  
  
(Hadn’t he ever been to the basement?)  
  
Not ever?  
  
This couldn’t last. There was no way it could last. No matter how careful you were, or how hard you tried, mistakes happened.  
  
(It didn’t matter how hard you worked, or how much time you spent planning, or how many times you practiced. Something could always go wrong.)  
  
Failures happened, and there was no excuse for failure.  
  
(Even if there were events that you couldn’t possibly have foreseen. Even if there were vital details that you had no way of knowing.)  
  
Failure was always punished.  
  
(Failure meant pain. Just like weakness. Just like disobedience. Just like disrespect. It was that simple.)  
  
So sooner or later he was going to fuck up badly enough that Aegis or whoever would have no choice but to discipline him for it.  
  
(And maybe his smile would stop reaching his eyes, and he’d start to forget that there was anything more to this world than pain. He’d start to forget that there were reasons for doing things or not doing things other than because you were desperately afraid of the consequences of failure.)  
  
(Or disobedience.)  
  
(Or disrespect.)  
  
(Or weakness.)  
  
Or… Or he’d go up against the wrong person, hopelessly unprepared for someone who was seriously willing to fuck him up. And he’d get hurt, or worse.  
  
(I didn’t want that to happen. Maybe I didn’t know him all that well, but I kind of liked him. He was… nice. I hadn’t known many people who were nice. So I didn’t want him to get hurt. And I… I didn’t want him to lose that idealism, that niceness, either.)  
  
(But it was one or the other, wasn’t it?)  
  
(You were tough and hard and mean and vicious, but you survived. Or you were nice and you… didn’t.)  
  
(Fuck. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know what I was feeling right now, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit.)  
  
I stared at Kid Win and I had no fucking clue what to say.  
  
In the end, I swallowed against the lump in my throat and said, simply: “I don’t want to talk about this any more.”  
  
“Oh. Right,” he said, uncertainly. “Sorry. Um, I didn’t mean to upset you. Really.”  
  
“I’m not upset,” I said softly, not trusting my voice enough to speak any louder than that. “I just have work to do.”  
  
“I’ll let you get back to it then.” He sounded about as miserable as I felt. Which I absolutely hated, but I had no earthly clue how to fix it. And I was sure that trying would only end up making things worse.  
  
“Thanks,” was all I said instead, turning my attention back to the monitor.  
  
Or trying to.  
  
I couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation, turning it over and over in my mind.  
  
I knew there was a reason I tried to avoid talking to people.  
  
No matter what I did, I always ended up fucking things up.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Would this ever get easier?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Once again, I was relieved when the alarm sounded to indicate the start of the next part of the shift.  
  
It still seemed weird to me that they had such long breaks. Hell, it seemed weird that they had breaks at all, but maybe that was a Youth Guard mandated thing. Who knew? Well, it wasn’t my place to question how they did things. And if I was on monitoring duty, I guessed I could always use the time to do some work, or to practice with my powers, or something. There was always something useful I could be getting on with. I wasn’t sure what the Wards out in the field did during the breaks — they were still in costume, after all — but I supposed I could always ask.  
  
I saved my place in the course and closed it down, settling the headset over my ears and bringing up the monitoring programme, scrolling systematically through the feeds. There didn’t seem to be a lot going on at the moment.  
  
“You seem to have got the hang of that,” Kid Win said, smiling at me.  
  
“It’s a fairly intuitive system,” I said, and attempted a small smile in return. “And you’re a good teacher.”  
  
“Oh. Thank you. Um, that’s nice of you to say.” It was kind of amusing, watching him flush and stammer.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Was this how Clockblocker felt when he managed to fluster me?  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
Maybe his sense of humour really was contagious.  
  
“Anyway,” Kid Win said, apparently managing to recover his composure. “I’ll just check in with Aegis and Clockblocker…”  
  
They were doing fine, it seemed, although Clockblocker complained about having to hole up in a PRT van so he could eat some greasy tourist snack he’d bought without exposing his face to the world. From the reactions of both Kid Win and Aegis, this was not the first time he’d made such a complaint. Neither of them were overly sympathetic about it.  
  
That did actually bring to mind a question.  
  
As soon as Kid Win had finished checking in with the other two and muted his microphone, I said:  
  
“I was wondering. What do you do if you need to go to the bathroom when you’re on patrol?”  
  
He looked startled, and then grinned, flushing a little.  
  
“Well, we just use public restrooms like anyone else. Or local businesses will often let us use their restrooms.”  
  
Public restrooms? That didn’t sound very secure.  
  
“Must be awkward in costume,” I mused. “Especially for the ones in power armour, or similar. And you’re not exactly incognito.” I quirked an eyebrow. “Not afraid of being caught with your pants down? So to speak.”  
  
“You think someone would try to unmask us? Or attack us?” His voice rose incredulously. “In the bathroom?”  
  
“It’s not that out there an idea,” I muttered, frowning. But he was looking at me like he wasn’t sure whether or not I was joking. I sighed. “Never mind.” I desperately searched for something else to say. “So, on another note, do you have any idea what went down between the PRT and the Empire last night?”  
  
“No, not really,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair and frowning. “Well, just what’s being bandied about on the internet. Not a lot of details there, though.”  
  
“Tell me about it,” I said, feeling frustrated. “I had a look earlier, but hard facts seem thin on the ground.” I clenched my jaw, remembering again the looks on the faces of the soldiers in the canteen. “It seemed like it was a bad one, though.”  
  
“Yeah,” he said quietly. We sat there in silence for a few moments, and then he added: “I guess we’ll be filled in at next Monday’s briefing, if nothing else. But hopefully we’ll be able to find out more before then.”  
  
“Hopefully,” I said. “I don’t think I’ll be at Monday’s briefing, though. I’ve been scheduled for my power evaluation that day.”  
  
“Cool,” he said.  
  
A thought occurred to me.  
  
“Actually, that reminds me,” I said. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”  
  
“Oh?” He said, looking interested.  
  
“There are a few things I want to try out with my power, but I’m going to need some materials, safety equipment and somewhere to work. Um, preferably somewhere non flammable. Just in case. Do you know how I would go about requesting that?”  
  
Kid Win’s eyebrows raised almost all the way to his hairline.  
  
“There are procedures for requesting stuff, and I can certainly help you with that. But the PRT generally don’t like new Wards to mess around with their powers too much until they’ve been evaluated. I mean, you can certainly put in the request, but I suspect it’ll be put on hold until they know exactly what you can do.”  
  
“Oh,” I said. That was… disappointing. Not that I didn’t have other things I could be working on, but I was hoping to at least make a start on some of the initial tests this week.  
  
“There are some basic stocks of materials in the workshop, though,” he said. “I guess you could play around with some of those, as long as you don’t destroy them. They, uh, like to keep track of where things go.”  
  
That made sense. I guessed they didn’t want people walking off with the stuff they supplied.  
  
“I was hoping to be able to use the workshop,” I said, hesitantly. “As long as I won’t be in your way or anything. I mean, I’m not a tinker, but I can make things, and that’s something I really want to experiment with.”  
  
“You won’t be in the way,” he said quickly, almost before I’d finished speaking. Did he really mean that, or was he just being nice? In the complete absence of any way to tell for sure, I figured I’d just take him at his word.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, and smiled.  
  
“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, smiling back. “I mean, it’s not like the workshop belongs to me or anything. Despite what Clockblocker calls it. It’s just that I’m the only tinker here at the moment.” His grin turned rueful. “Just don’t expect me to be overly sociable when I’m in full on tinker mode.”  
  
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” I said, amused. “Anyway, I’ll no doubt be busy concentrating on my own projects, so be can be unsociable together.”  
  
“Sounds good.” He grinned, and then gave me a curious look. “So, I have to ask. What are you planning that risks setting the place on fire?”  
  
“Oh.” I looked away, feeling a little self-conscious. “Well, I wanted to try making flash powder. Molecular aluminium dust plus a spark equals boom. So that’s not something I really want to do in the workshop. And I kind of accidentally blew up a mobile phone last week when I was trying to figure out its structure. So I’m curious to see if I could do something like that on purpose, if I had the right components.” I glanced up at him to find him studying me with an expression of absolute fascination. “But there are more things I want to try that don’t involve blowing anything up. I promise.”  
  
“Um, just so you know, I strongly doubt anyone in the PR department is going to give you the go ahead to use explosives out in the city. Just FYI.” He sighed. “You should see the trouble I have getting some of my inventions past them.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“Well, I don’t necessarily have to use them. But surely it’s better to have a clearer idea of the kinds of things I can do with my power. Even if I don’t end up using even half of it most of the time.”  
  
Like my cutting wires. To pull out a random example that I totally hadn’t been worrying about in the slightest. At all.  
  
Kid Win gave me a searching look, and then suddenly grinned brightly. “I cannot wait to hear the results of your power evaluation. I bet it’s going to be interesting.”  
  
“I just hope I don’t fuck it up.” The words were out of my mouth before I even realised I was going to say anything.  
  
His expression strangely understanding — if more concerned than perhaps I would have liked — Kid Win looked at me for a moment. Quietly, he said: “You’re not going to fuck it up, Astrid.” And then he smiled. “You really can’t mess up a power evaluation. All you have to do is show them what you can do. That’s it. Trust me, you’re going to be fine.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, after a moment.  
  
I tried to smile back at him, but I couldn’t quite manage it.  
  
Because it was easy for him to say that, but he didn’t know me.  
  
If there was a way to fuck up a power evaluation, I was pretty sure I would be the one to find it.  
  
I just hoped I didn’t fuck things up too badly.


	26. Agoraphobia 2.13

The rest of the shift passed uneventfully. The most excitement Aegis and Clockblocker had was when a mob of tourists descended on them to ask for photos and autographs. I spent most of that time cringing in anticipation of what Clockblocker might say to them, but he was surprisingly… inoffensive.  
  
I guessed miracles really did happen.  
  
Even more miraculously, I’d somehow managed to avoid saying anything too stupid or awkward to Kid Win in the intervening time. At least, I thought I had.  
  
Well, I hoped I had, anyway.  
  
When the shift was over, Kid Win filled out his part of the incident report for the single altercation that Aegis and Clockblocker had gotten involved in, explaining it to me as he went. It all seemed very straightforward. I helped him clear up the rubbish and uneaten snacks afterwards.  
  
“Thanks,” he said, smiling.  
  
“You’re welcome,” I replied. “Thank you for explaining how monitoring duty works.”  
  
“It was no trouble,” he demurred. If it was anyone else, I’d think they were just being polite, but I had the strange feeling that he actually meant that. I didn’t really know what to say, so I settled for returning his smile.  
  
He put the remaining snacks away in one of the kitchen cupboards as I washed up my mug, glass and plate. In my peripheral vision, I saw him glance over in my direction a couple of times. He looked like he wanted to say something. Not wanting to push, I waited him out. Eventually, he cleared his throat.  
  
“When Aegis and Clockblocker get back, and they’ve done their part of the incident report, we’re probably going to hang out for a bit. You’re, uh, welcome to join us if you want.” He smiled a little hesitantly, flushing a little. “It’s kind of nice to unwind a little after a shift, even a quiet one.”  
  
Hang out with Aegis and Clockblocker?  
  
That… did not sound like it would help me unwind in the slightest. I guessed it hadn’t been so bad yesterday, watching Clockblocker play Halo. But practically every word out of his mouth in the gym today had put my hackles right up.  
  
And then there was Aegis to consider.  
  
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” I said.  
  
“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Kid Win replied earnestly. “You’re one of us. You’re a member of the team.”  
  
I wondered if the other two would feel the same way.  
  
“I was planning to go through some more of the online course stuff,” I said. “And then maybe go out for a run.” (I tried to ignore the way my heart thudded painfully in my chest at that thought.) “Or hit the gym.”  
  
“You said you already hit the gym today, though,” he said, frowning. “And you sparred with me.” He hesitated a moment, and then added: “It’s probably not a good idea to overdo it.”  
  
Oh, for fuck’s sake!  
  
“I’m not going to overdo it,” I said tightly. “I’ve been training for pretty much my whole life. I know how hard I can push myself.”  
  
“But… But you’re injured!” he protested.  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“I don’t see what difference that makes. Anyway, it would hardly be the first time I’ve trained with minor injuries. I’m not a fucking idiot. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think I could handle it.”  
  
Why couldn’t he take a fucking hint? Seriously! So much for not thinking I was fucking fragile. Or had he just being telling me what I wanted to hear?  
  
But…  
  
Given his apparently sheltered and coddled life to date, he probably didn’t know any better. I guessed I couldn’t really fault him for judging me by his own standards. He didn’t know me, after all. Not yet.  
  
Anyway, I couldn’t really bring myself to stay mad at him.  
  
I sighed, feeling the exhaustion settle around me like a shroud.  
  
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know you mean well. But you really don’t have to worry. I’m fine.”  
  
I looked over in time to see him studying my bruises again, a frown wrinkling his brow. I half-expected him to express yet more fucking concern about my physical state, but all he said was:  
  
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push. You don’t have to join us if you don’t want to.” He gave me a rueful smile. “You’ve probably seen enough of me for today, anyway.”  
  
“It’s not that; not at all,” I protested, feeling vaguely distressed for no damn reason at all that I could see. “I liked spending time with you.”  
  
I hadn’t exactly meant to say that, but I was surprised to realise that it was true. Not that it hadn’t been by turns awkward, stressful and irritating at times, but… less so than pretty much anyone else I’d spent time with here.  
  
He wasn’t in a position of authority over me, aside from in the general sense of having to follow his lead in the field.  
  
(I was pretty sure he didn’t have the authority to discipline me.)  
  
He wasn’t an asshole, like Clockblocker, deliberately trying to provoke a reaction from me.  
  
(Although, it had been kind of fun when I managed to land a verbal hit of my own on the bastard. And he had actually tried to help, in his own way, when Aegis told him to look after me. Not that I needed him — or anyone — to look after me. Ever.)  
  
He wasn’t aggressive, like Shadow Stalker, constantly challenging me and looking for signs of weakness.  
  
(I mean, that was comfortable in its own way, and it was definitely familiar, but keeping my guard up like that all the time still took effort. Not that I ever dropped my guard, not really, but I needed a whole different level of alertness with people like her.)  
  
He wasn’t a threat to me, at least not physically. And, even though he could undoubtedly seriously fuck me up with his tinker tech if he’d wanted to, he… didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d want to.  
  
(Although he was still a cape, and capes were always threats. No matter how weak and harmless and friendly they seemed. I couldn’t let myself forget that. No matter how much a part of me almost wanted to.)  
  
He was just so earnest and, well, nice.  
  
I wasn’t really used to nice.  
  
But I thought I kind of liked it.  
  
And, despite his bouts of irritating protectiveness, I kind of liked him.  
  
“Oh,” he said, staring at me with what looked like pleased surprise. He smiled a little shyly, a flush spreading over his face. “I liked spending time with you, too.”  
  
Now it was my turn to flush. I… really wasn’t used to people saying that. Certainly not with as much apparent sincerity. I was always the weird, antisocial, aggressive girl who said the wrong thing and was awkward as fuck all the damn time. That didn’t really tend to incline people towards finding me particularly pleasant company.  
  
(Much though I might have wished otherwise.)  
  
Not that it bothered me. I mean, it wasn’t like I needed people to like me. Generally, all I wanted from them was to leave me the fuck alone. It was easier that way. Safer.  
  
(Even if it did get terribly lonely sometimes.)  
  
But I was getting side-tracked. I pulled my scattered thoughts together and tried to figure out how to get past this without making my discomfiture obvious.  
  
“Anyway, I appreciate the offer,” I said, a little belatedly. “But I should probably try to get some work done.” I sighed, feeling a little intimidated, despite my best efforts. “There’s such a lot to learn.”  
  
“I get that,” he said, sounding sympathetic. He shifted from foot to foot, looking a little self-conscious. “I mean, I’ve kind of been in the same position, you know? I had to learn all that stuff too, when I started, and I remember it being kind of… daunting.”  
  
I was a little surprised he’d admit to that, but I couldn’t deny it made me feel a little better to know that it wasn’t just me.  
  
“So, you understand why I want to get as much of a head start as I can,” I said, softly.  
  
“I do; I really do,” he said, nodding. “And it’s not like I didn’t try to do the same.” He grimaced suddenly. “Not that I’m anywhere near as, well, as focused as you seem to be, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, I know what it’s like to feel like you have to cram all that knowledge into your head as fast as you can.” He blew out a breath, and gave me a small, encouraging smile. “But, you know, this is only your second day as a Ward. You only got access to the course stuff today, right?”  
  
“That’s right,” I said, a little uncertain as to where he was going with this.  
  
“Speaking from personal experience, the instructors do not expect you to memorise the entire syllabus before you meet with them. Trust me on this.” His smile broadened suddenly, his eyes sparkling with humour. “Honestly, they’ll probably be pleasantly be surprised if you’ve even so much as glanced at the topic list in advance.”  
  
I frowned. That couldn’t possibly be right. Could it?  
  
“But Director Piggot said I should try to familiarise myself with the subject matter,” I said. “And surely the face to face tutorials will go smoother if I already have a basic grasp of the fundamentals.”  
  
“Well, yeah,” he said, with a level of dismissiveness that made me want to twitch a little. But not half as much as I wanted to twitch when he continued: “Of course Piggy would say that.”  
  
By the love of all that was holy, how the frilly French **fuck** had he managed to avoid being disciplined for disrespect? Obviously he’d never been caught using that particular nickname by anyone in authority. I mean, I knew Clockblocker had mentioned it, but wilful disrespect seemed to be his thing. And I had the feeling that he wasn’t the type of person who would stop just because he got himself disciplined for it. (Which was absolutely not a quality I admired. Or should admire. Except, well, I kind of did. Albeit reluctantly.)  
  
“I don’t think it’s appropriate to call the director that,” I said stiffly.  
  
“What?” He blinked at me, looking surprised. “It’s just a stupid nickname. I mean, I wouldn’t use it to her face or anything. But there’s no harm in saying it among ourselves.” His lips curved in a wry smile. “Once you’ve been here a while, I’m pretty sure you’ll understand the urge to use uncomplimentary nicknames for Director Piggot. She can be… difficult to get along with sometimes.”  
  
Difficult to get along with? She wasn’t our friend, she was our fucking commander! She gave orders, and we obeyed them. It was that fucking simple. What the fuck did ‘getting along’ have to do with anything?  
  
“She seemed perfectly reasonable to me,” I murmured.  
  
“Really? Wow.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Well, anyway, tangents aside, the point I was trying to make is that you don’t have to spend the whole rest of the evening studying.” He grinned suddenly. “You can afford to spend a little time relaxing with your new team mates. If, you know, you want to. I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine. I just thought it might be nice and, um, I’ll stop rambling now.” He laughed a little self-consciously, his cheeks flushing. “Anyway, it’s up to you.”  
  
I thought about it. Maybe it would be useful to spend a little time with my team mates in a relatively informal setting. I mean, we were going to be working together, after all. You didn’t necessarily have to like the other members of your squad, but you did have to be able to work with them. Getting to know them a little could help with that.  
  
“I guess I could hang out for a little bit,” I said, hating how hesitant and uncertain I sounded. I took a breath and tried to make my tone firmer. “But I’m going to get some more work done first.” And probably afterwards, but there didn’t seem much point in saying that aloud.  
  
Kid Win smiled. “Cool. Well, I’m going to go and get changed. Do you want me to come and fetch you when the others get here?”  
  
“No, that’s alright,” I said. I managed a small smile. “I’m pretty sure I’ll hear Clockblocker’s voice, anyway.” Plus, I’d be able to feel the elevator arrive, but I kept that piece of information to myself.  
  
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, laughing a little. “So, I’ll see you out in the Hub in a bit?  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
With a smile and a wave, he left the kitchen. I started to follow, then hesitated a moment and went to make another cup of coffee. I needed to be fully alert if I was going to be able to process the course information properly, after all. Not to mention hanging out with my team mates. I definitely wanted to be awake for that.  
  
Given how tired I was feeling right now, I didn’t think I’d have any trouble sleeping tonight even with all the coffee I’d been drinking.  
  
(And if I stayed awake long enough, maybe I’d be sufficiently tired when my head finally hit the pillow that I could sleep without dreaming.)  
  
(So I could wake in the morning without feeling like I’d spent half the night screaming.)  
  
Just one night of restful, dreamless sleep.  
  
Was that too much to ask?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I tried to tell myself I didn’t feel apprehensive as I walked through the hub, heading towards the sound of voices. I wasn’t sure why I even bothered to make the attempt. Still, at least I had my awareness of the building to reassure me as I strode through the door, trying my best to fake a confidence I was in no way anywhere close to actually feeling.  
  
The conversation broke off as I entered the room, the three of them glancing over in my direction. They were all out of costume. Aegis — no, Carlos — was seated on a chair, while Chris and Dennis occupied the sofa. They all seemed fairly relaxed. I guessed this probably counted as at ease.  
  
“Hi Astrid,” Chris said, smiling.  
  
“Hey there, New Girl,” Dennis said. His smile was definitely more of a smirk.  
  
Carlos just nodded and smiled.  
  
“Hi,” I greeted them. I stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then crossed the room to grab a chair.  
  
“Again with the chair,” Dennis said, rolling his eyes. “Do you have something against being comfortable?” He patted the sofa cushion next to him. “There’s plenty of room here. Seriously.”  
  
“I could move,” Chris said, shifting as if to get to his feet.  
  
“No, that’s fine,” I said, feeling self-conscious. “Stay where you are. I’m okay with a chair. Really.” I sat down before they could make any more of a fuss.  
  
I remembered how hard it had been to extricate myself from the sofa last time. The chair was better in case I needed to be able to get up quickly. Plus, it meant I could put a little bit of distance between me and them. With how twitchy I was being at the moment, I didn’t think it was a good idea to be near anyone I could inadvertently lash out at.  
  
(I carefully avoided thinking that I wasn’t limited to lashing out physically any more, and that as long as they were in the building, they were within my range.)  
  
“How was your first experience of monitoring duty?” Carlos asked me.  
  
“It was fine, Sir,” I said cautiously, unsure what he wanted to hear. “Chris explained it all very clearly. It seemed fairly straightforward. Although I suppose this shift was fairly quiet.”  
  
“Well, most of them tend to be,” he said. “It’s fairly rare for us to encounter any serious trouble on patrol. I mean, it can happen, but today was probably quite typical.”  
  
“I… see, Sir.”  
  
That was unexpected. Certainly, Ms Grant had led me to believe that the Wards saw somewhat more combat than Carlos seemed to be suggesting. Although, I supposed he was only talking about patrols. That didn’t preclude involvement in specific missions.  
  
I saw Dennis look over at me and start to open his mouth, only for Chris to elbow him and mutter something I couldn’t hear. Dennis shot him an offended look, but didn’t say anything. I wondered what that was about. My best guess was that Dennis had been about to say something objectionable, and Chris had told him to knock it off. I honestly wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Somewhere along the lines of half touched and half irritated, I guessed.  
  
“So,” Chris said. “Do either of you know anything about what went down with E88 last night?”  
  
“Probably no more than you,” Dennis said, and his demeanour was uncharacteristically serious. Carlos looked away, stiffening, his hands twitching like he wanted to clench them into fists. The rest of us looked at him. “But it looks like our glorious leader knows something,” Dennis murmured, a speculative glint in his eye.  
  
“It was covered in the today’s bulletin,” Carlos said, shortly. He glanced over at me and added: “The PRT sends around daily status reports. As Wards team leader, I’m automatically on that mailing list.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said quietly, appreciating the explanation.  
  
“Is it anything you can share with us?” Chris asked, while I was still trying to figure out if I should voice my own curiosity.  
  
Carlos didn’t answer at first, the expression on his face tight and closed. After a moment or two, though, he sighed and said: “Yeah, I guess so.” He turned his gaze on each of us in turn and, in a forbidding voice, continued: “I assume you realise that I expect you to keep this within the team, though.”  
  
“Scout’s honour,” Dennis said cheerfully. I wasn’t sure if it was just my imagination or not, but Carlos seemed to twitch at the phrase.  
  
“Of course,” Chris said.  
  
For my part, I merely gave a quiet: “Yes, Sir,” and tried not to flinch when he turned that stern gaze on me.  
  
“Good,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling for a breath or two, possibly to get his thoughts in order, before turning his attention back to us. “Right. Well. The PRT got reports of a disturbance in Coil’s territory involving Viking of E88. No other capes mentioned at that time.”  
  
“Viking’s the master, right?” Chris asked.  
  
“I guess,” I mused, running through the details in my mind. “He gives people a temporary minor brute rating, which comes with a side of violent, uncontrollable rage that drives them to attack anyone apart from him who isn’t under the same effect. Basically, he turns people into berserkers.” They all looked at me. I tried not to wilt under the scrutiny. “Well, that’s what I heard, anyway,” I muttered.  
  
“That’s right,” Carlos said, after a moment. “How did you know that? Viking’s not exactly one of the major players.”  
  
I frowned. I hadn’t mentioned anything that wasn’t public knowledge, had I? I didn’t think so. Anxiety fluttered in my chest. I just wanted to show Carlos that I already had an idea of the local parahuman threats; that he wouldn’t have to waste time bringing me up to speed. (I wanted him to see that I could be useful, despite the impression he seemed to have formed of me so far.) Had I fucked up and made them suspicious?  
  
“The information’s not hard to find if you know where to look, Sir,” I told him. “And I’ve always had an interest in parahumans.”  
  
Technically true. The reasons for my interest, however, I planned to keep to myself.  
  
“Are you a cape groupie, New Girl?” Dennis sounded amused. I glared at him.  
  
“No,” I said, shortly, not trusting myself to say anything further on the subject. I got my temper under control — something I seemed to have to do whenever I was around this asshole — and turned my attention back to Carlos. “Sorry for the interruption, Sir.”  
  
“That’s alright,” he said.  
  
“Technically I was the one who interrupted,” Chris interjected, smiling at me. “You just answered my question.”  
  
“Anyway,” Carlos said. “Viking’s usual MO is to hit a target, cause some chaos, and then just disappear.”  
  
I nodded to myself. That certainly matched what I knew of the bastard. He had a particular penchant for targeting bars, clubs and even parties in areas with lots of… people of colour. He’d show up, turn a few people — not usually more than a handful or so — and then be gone again when the response showed up. Sometimes that response was from the PRT or Protectorate, sometimes it was from the gangs whose territory he was hitting. Sometimes both. Either way, Viking himself was rarely there for the fallout.  
  
Fucking masters.  
  
Scary bastards, one and all. The thought of being taken over than that, of being overwritten, even on a temporary basis; of having my will subsumed into a drive not my own… It just freaked me right the fuck out. I thought it would freak anyone out.  
  
“Masters,” Dennis said in a tone of utter disgust, giving an exaggerated shudder as he echoed my sentiment. I couldn’t help feeling a certain sense of comradeship with him. I guessed having shared enemies would do that.  
  
“Yeah,” Carlos murmured. He sat up a little straighter in his chair. “The PRT sent in a couple of squads. The easiest way to deal with the victims is confoam. Containment foam, that is,” he said, glancing in my direction. “It’s a tactic that’s worked well on previous occasions, so they weren’t really expecting much of a fight.” His jaw tightened. “They got more than they bargained for.”  
  
I studied Carlos covertly. He was… He was really angry right now. I mean, he was obviously doing his best to keep it contained, but the signs were obvious. I might not know him all that well, but I knew anger, and that was there in spades. Not that I blamed him under the circumstances.  
  
(He was probably looking for an excuse to vent his temper on someone; to lash out in cathartic violence. I would have to be really fucking careful not to give him a reason to turn that fury on me.)  
  
“What happened?” Chris asked quietly.  
  
“They walked into an ambush. Viking was still on the scene, and he wasn’t alone. He turned a bunch more people and sent them after the troops. Somehow. Even thought he hasn’t shown any particular ability to direct them before. But while they were fighting, Panzer and Renegade took out the confoam tanks.” He glanced over at me. “Do you know who they are?”  
  
I nodded slowly, wondering if this was a test.  
  
“Panzer’s a brute/blaster, Sir. He can create a glowing suit of armour around himself that acts as a shield and a minor force multiplier while it’s up, but can be discharged as a targeted blast. The stronger the blast, the longer it takes him to build the armour back up.”  
  
He’d been with the Empire a while now, but was pretty much just a low-level foot soldier. Dad said he lacked ambition. More damning, in Dad’s eyes, was that he didn’t make the best tactical use of his abilities.  
  
(‘With a little more control, a little more discipline, he could be a force to be reckoned with. That should be a lesson to both of you. Power doesn’t mean a fucking thing unless you know how to use it.’)  
  
“Renegade is a striker. Not sure exactly what his power is, but he can use it to cut people up when he gets in close.” My jaw tightened. “He really likes to cut people up.”  
  
I couldn’t have kept the disgust from my voice if I’d wanted to. Near as I could tell, he killed because he liked it. Not fighting: killing. And he often didn’t make it quick. I was so relieved when Dad had decided against trying to recruit him.  
  
“Uh, Astrid?” Chris’ voice startled me out of my thoughts. I looked over at him, and he gestured vaguely in the direction of my hands. “You might want to, um…”  
  
He trailed off, but I already realised what he’d been trying to tell me.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I returned my metal to its resting state, making my hands unclench with an effort. The spikes were a new feature. I’d experimented with similar things a little during hell week, but I didn’t think I’d ever formed them by accident. I guessed there was a first time for everything. But this was the second fucking time today I’d wrapped my fists in metal without realising it. And then there were the other, minor ways my control had frayed. Was this my power acting up? Or was it just tiredness giving my subconscious free rein? Either way, Dad would beat the shit out of me if he knew how badly I was fucking up. And he’d be right to do it.  
  
I couldn’t afford to keep slipping like this.  
  
“Sorry, Sir,” I said quietly, looking at Carlos. (Was he going to discipline me? He’d certainly be well within his rights to teach me a lesson about control, but I tried not to worry about it.) “But thinking about that sick piece of shit makes me really fucking angry.”  
  
“I can see that,” he said. Much to my surprise, he gave me a tight smile. “Don’t worry, I understand completely.”  
  
“We all understand.” Dennis sounded… thoughtful. A feeling of dread settled over me. “But that seemed personal to me.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Is it?”  
  
Goddammit! Excellent job at not arousing suspicion, idiot. What now? I mean, I could deny it outright, but lying really wasn’t my strong suit. And even if I had been better at it, I wasn’t sure I could lie convincingly with Carlos scrutinising me like that.  
  
Maybe a partial truth would suffice.  
  
“Kind of,” I muttered. I took a deep breath. “I came across one of his victims, once.”  
  
‘Once’ being about three months ago. But it wasn’t so much ‘came across’ as, well…  
  
The mission was supposed to be a straightforward smash and grab: no real opposition. The target was one of the small gangs that kept popping up like mushrooms on a shit heap. No capes to their name; no real name as yet. No fucking sense, either. They’d pulled off a small heist — some shitty jewellery store or pawn shop or something of that ilk — and the idiots had gone around bragging about their ‘big score.’ They obviously wanted to build up their rep, but all they’d done was make themselves a target.  
  
Fucking amateurs.  
  
It hadn’t taken much effort at all to locate their hideout. I should know: I’d taken point on that part of the operation. And I’d headed up the surveillance detail once we tracked them down. We’d watched them for a while, getting an idea of their numbers (not enough) and movements (careless), and then we geared up to hit the place. And by ‘we,’ I meant Lance and some of the squad.  
  
(Lance had been so pleased when Dad gave him tactical command for the mission. Being the asshole he was, he’d lorded it over me in a smug, self-satisfied way. Being the bitch I was, I’d lost my temper and sneered that he’d gotten the grunt work, while I’d been tasked with intel and strategy. I… wasn’t actually proud of that. It had been remarkably petty of me, and I didn’t even really believe it. Plans rarely survived contact with the enemy, after all, and tactical command was so much more than just grunt work. It sure as shit got a reaction from him, though, so: objective achieved.)  
  
Unfortunately for us, Renegade had the same idea about hitting the idiot gang. And he was apparently way ahead of us.  
  
Fuck, maybe he’d been watching us the whole time we’d been watching our target. Maybe he’d even seen me scouting the area. Thinking about it gave me the fucking chills.  
  
In any case, by the time Lance led his team into the gang’s hideout, the place was a fucking abattoir.  
  
(I was… profoundly grateful I hadn’t been there to see that. It was probably weak of me, but whatever. I did not need any more of that kind of shit in my head. My mind already had more than enough images to torment me with when I closed my eyes.)  
  
Renegade had got in without being spotted by either of the sentries I’d left to keep an eye on the place. But then, if he had been watching us, he would’ve known where they were. He’d also evaded the gang’s lone sentry, but that was hardly anything to write home about.  
  
Anyway, one of ours was down before they realised the twisted fuck was still on site. Probably taking his time ‘playing’ with the unfortunate gang members. That would certainly fit his MO. Lance and his squad bugged out right away, of course. Weirdly, Renegade actually let them go without further incident. He didn’t even stop them dragging the wounded man out with them. Maybe that was his idea of a warning shot. Maybe he was happy with the playthings he already had. Maybe he just didn’t feel like chasing them. Or something. Who the fuck knew what went on in the mind of a sick piece of shit like that?  
  
“The bastard had pretty much ripped him to shreds.”  
  
The sound of my own voice startled me. I hadn’t been intending to continue speaking. I was going to just leave it there. But now I’d started, it was like I couldn’t stop.  
  
The wounded man — Adams — was in a pretty bad way. He was dying, basically. We tried to get him to a medic, but…  
  
I tried to staunch the wounds as best as I could. I tried so fucking hard, but there were so many of them, and there was so much blood, and I just couldn’t stop it, and…  
  
And…  
  
“I know some first aid, so I tried to do what I could, but…”  
  
There was so much fucking blood, and he was choking and gurgling; making the most awful sounds. I **tried** , I really did, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.  
  
I looked down, reassuring myself that my metal was exactly where it was supposed to be.  
  
“In the end, that amounted to sweet fuck all.” My chest was aching, tight and pinched like there were metal bands around my rib cage. I made myself take a breath. “He was pretty much already dead when I found him.”  
  
Adams died in the back of the van.  
  
He was an obnoxious prick, and he seemed to like smacking me around during training a little bit too much, and I would undoubtedly have had to put him in his place sometime soon if he’d survived, but no one deserved to go out like that.  
  
No one.  
  
For a moment, it was like I could feel the stickiness of blood on my skin, could smell it in the air; heavy and cloying and thick. I pushed the phantom sensations away, wrenching my attention back to the here and now.  
  
I met Dennis’ gaze squarely, and I don’t know what he saw in my eyes, but whatever it was, it made him flinch.  
  
“It was pretty fucking bad.”  
  
Even now, months later, I still had nightmares about that day. And I still felt the sick sense of guilt from knowing that I’d fucked up and gotten one of ours killed.  
  
(I could have gotten Lance killed. If Renegade had gone after him, rather than Adams, or if he hadn’t let them go… Fuck. It could have been my brother bleeding out in the back of that van while I fought uselessly to save him.)  
  
(I couldn’t bear to think about it.)  
  
I should have been more alert. I should have been more careful. I should have realised that we weren’t the only ones with our eyes on the target.  
  
I should have been better.  
  
Dad hadn’t even seemed angry when he’d disciplined me afterwards, but that almost made it worse.  
  
He’d disciplined Lance, too, of course. God knew there was plenty of blame to go around.  
  
Afterwards, Lance and I had declared an unspoken truce. We’d put our usual enmity on hold, treated each other’s injuries, and then tried to find out everything we could about that **fucker** Renegade. Just in case. And the more we found out, the more I fucking hated him.  
  
(Despite the circumstances, it had almost been kind of… nice… while it lasted. The two of us, working together towards a common goal. Not that it had lasted all that long in the end. I wasn’t even sure which one of us started it that time, but within a few days we were back to fighting again.)  
  
That incident hadn’t even been the main reason why Dad had decided against recruiting him. After all, it wasn’t like he wasn’t willing to work with sometime enemies, or people he despised. He’d worked with Purity, for fuck’s sake, and I knew exactly how he felt about her.  
  
(’She’s a weak, traitorous bitch who let Kaiser lead her around by her fucking cunt. But that doesn’t mean we can’t use her. You just have to know the right buttons to push.’)  
  
No, when it came down to it, Renegade couldn’t be trusted to either follow orders, or behave in a sufficiently predictable manner that Dad could use him anyway.  
  
I sighed softly, trying to make myself relax; pushing down the memories. They weren’t relevant here. And dwelling on them would just risk making me slip again.  
  
“So, yeah, it’s kind of personal,” I finished.  
  
Silence reigned for what felt like a lifetime, although it couldn’t have lasted more than a few breaths. Carlos was the first person to speak.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said.  
  
I frowned at him. “I’m not sure I understand, Sir.”  
  
The weirdest fucking expression passed over his face.  
  
“I meant, I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he explained, his voice soft.  
  
“Oh.” I wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that. “Thank you, Sir.”  
  
“How-“ Chris’ voice cracked on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How did you know it was Renegade, and not some other…?”  
  
“Not some other sick fuck who likes to cut people up?” I asked, a little amused, in a bleak, bitter kind of way. I made myself stop and take a breath before continuing. “He was seen in the area around that time. Occam’s razor and all.” I sighed again. “But… I’ve completely derailed the conversation.” I looked at Carlos, hoping he wasn’t too angry with me. “Sorry about that, Sir.”  
  
Carlos started to say something, and then shook his head. He looked at me and sighed. “That’s alright, Astrid. You don’t need to apologise.”  
  
“I’m sorry I asked.” Dennis’ voice was barely audible. I looked at him, startled by his apparent sincerity. I was startled again when he gave me a smile, albeit a somewhat anaemic one that didn’t even come close to his usual smirk. “But it turns out that I was right, New Girl: you are interesting.”  
  
I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Fortunately, Chris spoke up.  
  
“So, to return to the original subject: what happened next, Carlos?”  
  
“Right.” Carlos took a breath. “So, Panzer and Renegade hit the vans, taking out the confoam tanks there, and then the two of them, plus Viking, disappeared.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“Renegade didn’t kill anybody, Sir?”  
  
“No, much to everybody’s surprise. He didn’t even touch any of the PRT troops, but they were kind of occupied.” His hands twitched, like I wasn’t the only one who wanted to hit something. Or someone. “Viking turned a lot of people, and they didn’t have enough confoam to immobilise them all. Pursuing the capes really wasn’t an option.” He was quiet for a moment. “Assault and Battery showed up a short while later, and between the two of them and the PRT troops, they managed to contain the situation.”  
  
That obviously wasn’t the end of it. What I’d seen and heard in the canteen and what I’d come across online suggested more than one engagement.  
  
“It sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Dennis murmured. Smirking half-heartedly, he added: “And I bet it’s a big but.”  
  
Carlos nodded at him.  
  
“But,” he said. “In the meanwhile, Viking went on to do the same thing at another site. And then another one, and another.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure exactly how many targets he hit, in the end. The bulletin just said ‘a number’ of them, all in areas believed to be part of Coil’s territory. The PRT brought in more people, but they couldn’t keep up.”  
  
“What about the Protectorate?” Chris asked. “What were they doing?”  
  
“Most of them were involved in trying to stop a fight between some E88 capes and the Merchants from causing too much collateral damage.”  
  
I remembered seeing something about that when I’d been poking around online. Not a lot of details, though. Not a lot of witnesses, maybe?  
  
“To cut a long story short,” Carlos said. “Viking hit a number of targets in relatively quick succession. The PRT tried to keep up, but they were pretty seriously overwhelmed. Panzer and Renegade kept taking out confoam tanks, forcing the PRT to engage the people Viking had mastered in melee. Most of those were civilians, of course, so the PRT couldn’t exactly go all out.” He shook his head. “Unlike the berserkers.”  
  
Fuck. That… explained a few things. The PRT being forced to fight civilians? People they claimed they wanted to protect? No wonder they were pissed off. That was kind of twisted.  
  
“So, what was Coil doing during all of this?” Dennis asked. “Sitting around with his thumb up his ass?”  
  
I was kind of curious about that myself. It didn’t make sense for him to sit back while Viking tore up his territory.  
  
“His soldiers entered the fray at some point — I’m not sure exactly when — and worked on containing the berserkers.”  
  
“Wait. Does that mean the PRT worked with them?” Chris sounded positively scandalised. Christ, he really was naive.  
  
“Not officially, I’ll bet,” Dennis muttered, a cynical glint in his eyes.  
  
Carlos shrugged. “As I understand it, the PRT opted to prioritise dealing with the civilians Viking had mastered over getting into anything with Coil’s people. I can’t honestly say that I blame them.”  
  
It probably didn’t sit well with them, though, I’d bet.  
  
“At some point, Viking, Panzer and Renegade disengaged, leaving the PRT to clean up the mess they’d caused,” Carlos said. “And that’s pretty much where my knowledge of events comes to an end. The general bulletin didn’t go into a whole lot of detail.” He shook his head, frowning. “Sounds like one hell of a mess, though.”  
  
Silence fell for a few moments as we digested what he’d told us. I was the first one to speak.  
  
“Do you know how many fatalities there were, Sir?” I asked.  
  
“No, I don’t,” he said. “But I know there were civilian losses, and it sounds like at least a couple of PRT soldiers were killed. There were definitely a whole lot of injuries. Not to mention the aftereffects from Viking’s mastery.”  
  
“About that,” Chris said, frowning. “I thought Viking can’t control the people he masters. He just winds them up and lets them go, right? But you said he directed them against the PRT squads? And how come they didn’t attack Panzer and Renegade?”  
  
“Those are good questions,” Carlos said. “And the answer is that we don’t know. He’s never shown any sign of being able to direct them before, but maybe he was holding back. Or maybe he’s just got stronger. Either way, it’s bad.”  
  
No shit.  
  
I mean, it was bad enough that he could turn a person into a frothing rage monster with no desire other than to attack the unmastered. But to actually be able to control them? That took it to a different level, even if it was only temporary. Then again, if he’d figured out a way around that limitation, who was to say he couldn’t find a way to increase the duration?  
  
Something told me Viking had just jumped up a few rungs on the PRT’s threat list.  
  
“What about that group he sometimes has with him?” Dennis asked. “He calls them his Berserkers.” He pulled a face. “Bit of an unimaginative name if you ask me. Although, I’m almost surprised he didn’t recruit a bunch of hot women and call them his Valkyries. After all, look at the example Kaiser sets with his giantesses.”  
  
I tried not to twitch at the mention of Kaiser, making sure that my metal remained dormant.  
  
Carlos rolled his eyes. “Thanks for that stunning observation, Dennis,” he said.  
  
“Wasn’t really aimed at you,” Dennis said slyly, and gave Chris a sidelong look. “But I bet Chris can see the attraction of having a few tall, blonde, warrior women around. Or, one of them at least. I know I can.”  
  
He looked me up and down, smirking, and I flushed with anger. And embarrassment, sure, but mainly a whole lot of anger. Not least because he was equating me to those Empire bitches Fenja and fucking Menja. Pretty much the only reason I didn’t just stride over there and smack the shit out of the asshole was because the team leader was right there.  
  
But I really, really wanted to.  
  
I wasn’t just mad on my own behalf, either. Poor Chris had gone bright pink, and he didn’t seem to know where to look.  
  
“Dennis,” Carlos said reproachfully.  
  
“What, oh fearless leader?” Dennis replied, blinking innocently.  
  
Carlos frowned, and I felt a tremor of uneasiness ripple through me. First Shadow Stalker, and now Dennis. Were the two of them trying to get themselves disciplined? Was it some kind of bizarre game of chicken? Who could push the team leader far enough that he snapped?  
  
I absolutely did not understand these people.  
  
In attempt to dissipate the tension, to get my temper under control and to distract Chris from his apparent mortification, I answered Dennis’ original question.  
  
“For some reason, his Berserkers seem to be able to hang onto enough of their minds to follow simple directives when they’re in berserk mode.” I frowned. “No idea if it’s training, powers, some of natural immunity, or some other fucking thing.” I suppressed a shudder. “I can’t believe people apparently volunteer for that shit.”  
  
Lance’s Empire friends had talked about it like it was some kind of honour to be chosen. People fucking competed for it. Idiots. All they saw was the strength it gave them. Somehow, they missed the part where it turned them into nothing more than a fucking weapon to be aimed and used by someone else.  
  
Why would those people allow someone to do that to them?  
  
What the fuck was wrong with them?  
  
Carlos started to say something, but Dennis spoke right over him, making me twitch a little inside as I half expected Carlos to thump him for his blatant disrespect. Carlos just rolled his eyes, though.  
  
“You seem to know a lot about this, New Girl. Considering that you’re new and all. You sure you’re not a cape groupie?”  
  
“I’m not a fucking cape groupie,” I growled. “And if I was, I sure as shit wouldn’t fangirl over fucking **nazis**.”  
  
“That’s enough, Dennis,” Carlos said sharply.  
  
I flinched before I registered that he was snapping at Dennis, not me. I went still, hoping that no one had noticed. It looked like Chris glanced in my direction, however.  
  
Fucking great. He was going to think I was twitchy. Which, to be fair, I kind of was, but that didn’t mean I wanted people to know that.  
  
Dennis was hamming it up with his ‘who, me?’ routine again. I wondered if he actually thought he was fooling anybody. Somehow, I didn’t think he cared one way or another. I thought he was just doing it for the same reason he apparently did every-fucking-thing else: to get a reaction.  
  
Well, I would show him a fucking reaction if he wasn’t careful. And, unlike with Chris, I wouldn’t feel bad about letting my control slip with him at all.  
  
But now was really not the time. I reined in my temper, and made myself take a breath, trying not to notice the way that Chris was still looking at me, an expression of concern on his face.  
  
I didn’t know what he was worried about. I had my power — and my metal — under complete control.  
  
Speaking of control, though, there was one obvious question that came to mind. It was something I’d been wondering about for a while now.  
  
“Sir?” I said quietly.  
  
It took a moment for Carlos to respond, his attention apparently focused on Dennis. (I hoped he didn’t mind me interrupting.)  
  
“Yes, Astrid?”  
  
“I was just wondering, Sir. Do you know how Viking’s power works? Is it through touch, line of sight, speech or something else entirely?”  
  
It had really been bugging me, actually.  
  
“What, you don’t know that already?” Dennis asked, before Carlos could reply. “For shame, New Girl. You’ve obviously been slacking.”  
  
I was knew he was just trying to wind me up — and, anyway, it would be pretty fucking hypocritical of him to judge anyone else for slacking off — but, even so, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of anxiety at the thought that Carlos might think badly of me for my ignorance. It was probably stupid of me, I knew; but there it was.  
  
(I hoped he wasn’t annoyed at me for asking questions.)  
  
“There are limits to what information is publicly available,” I said, trying not to glare too much at Dennis. “However it works, it seems to require either proximity or physical contact, but that’s all anyone seems to know. There’s a whole lot of speculation, but precious few hard facts.”  
  
“It’s a fungus,” Chris piped up. “Or something functionally identical to one. He… exudes it somehow. Spores, maybe? It probably can’t survive long outside a host, hence why he has to be in close proximity to his victims.” He grimaced. “If you go into E88 territory at all, I suggest you wear a face mask. Or a full bunny suit.”   
  
Dennis smirked and started to say something, but subsided when Chris elbowed him.  
  
“I guess that would have been too easy,” he murmured.  
  
“Uh, a bunny suit is…” Chris started to say, flushing.  
  
“I know what it is,” I said, a little sharply. Did he think I was an idiot? Whatever. I was more interested in what he’d said before that. “A fungus,” I echoed, turning the thought over in my mind. That wasn’t disgusting in the slightest.  
  
“Have you heard of the cordyceps fungus?” Carlos asked.  
  
The name rang a bell. I thought for a moment, and it suddenly clicked into place. _Ophiocordyceps unilateralis_. Zombie ants. Right.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said, frowning.  
  
Fuck. Well, that wasn’t freaky at all.  
  
“Well, apparently it has some similarities to that. I don’t know the exact mechanics of how it works, although the PRT has people working on trying to figure that out. The good news is that the PRT and Protectorate have developed a treatment. The bad news is that it isn’t one that’s really practical to use in combat. Not yet, anyway. They’re working on it, though.” He sighed. “After last night, I guess it’ll probably be a higher priority.”  
  
“Hey, look on the bright side,” Dennis said. “At least the thing dies off in an hour or so, max. And it doesn’t seem to spread. Can you even imagine?” He shuddered theatrically, but I had the feeling that it wasn’t all for show.  
  
I knew how he felt.  
  
“Don’t even joke about that,” Chris said, pulling a face. “Can we please change the subject? I’m probably going to have nightmares about parasitic, mind altering fungi tonight as it is.”  
  
I suspected he might not be the only one.  
  
(But I’d take those nightmares over the other kind any day of the week.)  
  
“How do you think the PRT and Protectorate are going to respond to this, Sir?” I asked.  
  
Carlos frowned. “Well, at the very least, they’ll be taking Viking more seriously as a threat from now on. Beyond that, though?” He shrugged. “Way above my pay grade. Anyway, it’s not anything we’re likely to be involved in.”  
  
That was a distinctly unsatisfying answer.  
  
I thought about trying to ask for more details, but Carlos sighed and shook his head. “Anyway, I don’t want to think about this any more. Does anyone have something more cheerful to talk about?”  
  
Okay. I guessed I wouldn’t be asking any more questions right now. Maybe some other time.  
  
“We could play Truth or Dare,” Dennis suggested, grinning. “That could be fun. I have some awesome dares in mind.”  
  
Was he serious? I genuinely had no idea. Either way, I was pretty sure I wanted no part of that action.  
  
Carlos groaned. “I am in no way drunk enough for that,” he said, firmly.  
  
“You can’t get drunk,” Dennis said.  
  
“Exactly,” Carlos said, firmly.  
  
“Spoilsport,” Dennis replied, pulling a face. He smirked suddenly, and I had just enough time to feel a sense of foreboding before he added: “I would have suggested Spin the Bottle, but I wouldn’t want to be accused of corrupting any innocents in our midst.”  
  
Chris went pink just as I felt my own cheeks flush. I glared at Dennis.  
  
“Why are you such an asshole?” I snarled.  
  
At the same time, Chris snapped: “Don’t be a dick.”  
  
We glanced at each other, and then went back to glowering at Dennis. Naturally, the bastard just smirked.  
  
“That’s so interesting,” he drawled. “Your reactions, I mean.”  
  
“That’s enough, Dennis,” Carlos said. His voice was quiet, but serious. “Don’t you remember what we talked about yesterday?”  
  
I blinked, irritation vanishing in the face of sudden concern. Had Carlos disciplined Dennis yesterday? Why? When? I guessed Dennis had been a little bit subdued when Carlos went off to talk to Shadow Stalker. But he hadn’t seemed damaged, and the two of them had been playing computer games without any apparent awkwardness when I came down from the gym. Maybe they were just really good at compartmentalising?  
  
Whatever had happened, Dennis’ ever present grin actually faltered a little. Not completely, though.  
  
“Fine,” he sighed. “Whatever. I wasn’t being serious, anyway.”  
  
“When are you ever?” Chris asked, poking him in the side. He was still a little flushed, but he was grinning now. Dennis gave him a haughty look.  
  
“I can be serious,” he said, with great dignity. “I merely choose not to be. Trust me, though, if I wanted to, I would have gravitas coming out of my ass.”  
  
The unexpectedness of his comment startled a laugh out of me, if only briefly. When all three of them turned to look in my direction, however, it was all I could do not to frown.  
  
“What?” I asked, feeling distinctly self-conscious.  
  
“Oh, nothing,” Dennis said, smiling in a surprisingly non-smirky way. “Just wondering what that strange sound was. I’m not sure I’ve heard you laugh before, that’s all.”  
  
I snorted.  
  
“Well, maybe if you ever said anything fucking funny, you would’ve heard it before now.”  
  
He clutched his hand to his chest dramatically, screwing up his whole face in a pained grimace.  
  
“Ouch. You wound me, milady.”  
  
“Don’t tempt me,” I said darkly, giving him a flat look.  
  
He dropped the dying swan act, pure mischief dancing in his eyes as he grinned at me.  
  
“You really are cute when you try to be intimidating.” He nudged Chris, who had been watching the exchange with what looked like flustered amusement. “Don’t you think so?”  
  
“Um,” Chris said, his eyes wide.  
  
I thought I knew how he felt. I hated being put on the spot like that. And maybe, unlike Dennis, he actually realised how irked I was at being called cute.  
  
My phone buzzed suddenly, almost making me jump. I reached for it, a little surprised to see the other three pulling out their own phones.  
  
“Uh oh,” Chris murmured, looking concerned.  
  
I felt a little apprehensive myself. Were we being called out for a mission? Was the Empire making a move? Was it an endbringer attack?  
  
It felt like quite an anticlimax when I checked the display to see it was just an alert about tomorrow’s scheduled tour of the Wards HQ. Which was nerve-wracking in its own way, but was by far from a worst case scenario.  
  
“I’d forgotten about that,” Chris said, frowning. “I was planning on spending time in the workshop.”  
  
“No reason you can’t still do that,” Dennis pointed out. “You know the tourists like to see you at work. ‘See the wild tinker in his natural environment,’ and all that.”  
  
“I guess,” Chris said slowly. He didn’t seem convinced. “But there’ll be questions, and photographs, and I won’t be able to stay in the right headspace for working.”  
  
As they continued to discuss it, I turned to Carlos and, a little apprehensively, asked:  
  
“Will I be expected to be present for the tour, Sir?”  
  
“No, you won’t,” he said, much to my relief. He smiled. “Quite the opposite. The PR department doesn’t like us interacting with the public until we have approved names and costumes. But it’s only the public areas that are on the tour. The living spaces are completely off limits, so you’ll be safely out of the way there.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said. “Although I have courses scheduled all day tomorrow, so I’m not sure I’ll be spending much time in the HQ.”  
  
“What courses?” he asked, smiling.  
  
“First Aid, Fire Safety, Overview of Law Enforcement Procedures for Wards, and Introduction to the PRT, Sir. Plus, I have a meeting with HR.”  
  
“That takes me back,” he said, chuckling a little. “I warn you that you’re going to get very tired of that fire safety lecture. We have to have it every six months or so, and it’s identical every time. I think the film they show dates back to the seventies.”  
  
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I just smiled.  
  
“Are you talking about ‘The ABCs of Fire,’ Carlos?” Chris asked curiously.  
  
“Yep,” he said. “Astrid has that particular joy tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh God,” Dennis said, shuddering. “The outfits. What were they thinking? I mean, that bright yellow turtleneck is a crime against humanity. Against my eyes, certainly.”  
  
“The lime green pants,” Chris chimed in, grinning.  
  
“The hair,” Carlos added.  
  
I looked around at them, a little bemused.  
  
“Is it really that bad?” I wondered.  
  
“You’ll see, New Girl,” Dennis said ominously. “You’ll see.”  
  
“Oh,” Carlos said, sitting up in his chair. “Speaking of outfits, that reminds me: do you know that we have some generic costumes in the locker rooms? Not that you have to wear one, of course. Civilian clothes are perfectly fine. But it’s an option, if you want. There should be a whole bunch of different sizes, but if you can’t find one that fits, you can always request a specific size.”  
  
“I’ll take a look, Sir, thank you.”  
  
I did have a vague memory of that being mentioned during my intake meeting, but what with one thing and another, I hadn’t really thought about it since. I guessed it wouldn’t do any harm to take a look at what they had available.  
  
Anyway, wearing a costume would give me the chance to get some of my own stuff laundered. Not that I was at all concerned at sending my clothes off into the system and simply trusting that they’d find their way back to me.  
  
Okay, maybe I was a little bit concerned.  
  
I didn’t have all that many clothes right now. I really couldn’t afford to lose any of them.  
  
(And that wasn’t taking into account my sudden, ridiculous possessiveness.)  
  
(Maybe it would do me some good to be parted from some of my things for a little while, just to prove that I could.)  
  
(I would not let my power dictate terms to me. Dammit.)  
  
Speaking of tomorrow, though, had reminded me: I still had some more work to do. I’d already sat around here idle long enough. Although, I supposed, being here had meant I’d found out some more about last night’s clusterfuck. That had to count for something. But it was definitely time I got going.  
  
And then maybe I’d go out for that run.  
  
(No matter how afraid I was.)  
  
Maybe it would do me good to get some fresh air.  
  
(It was probably safe. Dad probably didn’t know where I was. It would probably be perfectly fine.)  
  
Anyway, it wasn’t like I could stay inside forever. I had to go out sometime.  
  
(I wouldn’t let my fear control me.)  
  
So why not now?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I ran through the park, easily keeping a steady pace despite the soreness of my body. I’d always liked being outside at night. Sometimes I’d go for walks when I’d finished with my schoolwork, or with whatever task my father had set for me; no particular destination in mind, just roaming.  
  
(Pretending to myself that I didn’t have to go back. That I could just keep walking. That I was free.)  
  
I’d always found it peaceful.  
  
Tonight, though, peace was hard to come by. Every shadow, every sound, every little movement in my peripheral vision made my breath quicken and my heart beat faster; filled my heart with dread.  
  
I tried to make myself relax; tried to tell myself that I was safe.  
  
That Dad didn’t know I was here.  
  
That I-  
  
“Did you really think you could get away from me so easily, **girl**?”  
  
I froze; only for a moment, but that was long enough. Long enough for Dad to lunge forward and grab me, slamming my head against a tree so hard that I saw stars, my ears ringing like bells. The impact scattered my wits like marbles, and no matter how hard I tried to focus, to make myself fight, my limbs wouldn’t obey me. I started to reach for my metal, but Dad gave a sharp twist to my arm, applying pressure. I bit back a scream as I felt something snap.  
  
“Your power won’t save you,” he sneered. “Nothing will. You’re coming back home with me where you belong.”  
  
That finally gave me the push I needed to force my way through the dizziness and the pain, to make my all-too-frail flesh move as I let my power surge forth. I scrabbled to regain my footing, only just managing not to pitch forward onto my face as the world tilted around me.  
  
“I’m not going back,” I tried to snarl, my voice instead emerging breathy and high-pitched, like a child’s. I flung out my other arm — the one he hadn’t just fucking broken — lashing out at his face with cutting wires.  
  
He just laughed.  
  
“Is that all you’ve got?” he sneered. Moving almost lazily, he backhanded me contemptuously across the face, making me bite my tongue. He hit me a second time, and then squeezed my broken arm with his massive hand.  
  
Much to my shame, I actually did scream that time.  
  
“I thought I taught you better than that, girl,” he said, sighing heavily. “But I see that we still have a long way to go. I’m not giving up on you, though. I would never, ever do that.”  
  
“Just let me go, you son of a bitch!” I yelled, finding some strength from somewhere as I launched a series of attacks, feeling nauseous as the bones of my bad arm ground together with the movement.  
  
“Make me,” he said, and I tried; I really did. I threw everything I had at him; metal and flesh and even glass forged from the ground beneath my feet. I hit him and cut him and stabbed him and tried to crush him and then did it all again, twice as hard, twice as vicious. But it didn’t matter. Nothing I did mattered. He just stood there and took it, the same way he always did. And in the end, just like always, I was the one who broke.  
  
I wavered on my feet, exhausted, hurting and terrified beyond reason.  
  
“I won’t go back,” I said, striving for fierceness despite the despair oozing like tar through my veins. “I’ll never be what you want me to be.”  
  
“Oh, Astrid, Astrid.” His sounded almost fond, running his fingers through my hair with a gentleness that, to look at him, you’d never think him even capable of. “Don’t you worry, my girl. I’ll flense this weakness out of you, you’ll see. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be the perfect soldier.”  
  
I jerked away from him, or tried to, brought up short by that implacable grip on my arm.  
  
“I’m not your fucking soldier,” I spat. “I never will be, no matter what you do to me.”  
  
But even as I spoke defiance, I knew it was hopeless.  
  
Because everybody breaks. That was the rule.  
  
And I was no exception.  
  
He looked at me for a long moment, his expression shrouded in shadow. And then he sighed.  
  
“You brought this on yourself, girl,” he said, and his voice was as cold as ice. “You disobeyed me. You disrespected me. You failed me. So now I have to discipline you.”  
  
My back hit the tree hard enough to rattle my bones; especially the broken ones. I cried out before I could stop myself, the sound choked off when he wrapped his other hand around my throat and started to squeeze.  
  
And as my lungs seized, and darkness consumed the edges of my vision, I flailed around with my body and with my power, looking for something; anything I could use. But there was nothing, nothing at all, until suddenly… there was. I grabbed for it desperately, hungrily, letting my power surge forth…  
  
And the whole world slipped sideways.  
  
No, wait! That was me!  
  
I was…  
  
My back hit something, the shock of impact startling a yelp out of me before I even realised I needed to hold it in.  
  
… falling.  
  
My heart was pounding like a jackhammer, my breath coming in panting, wheezing gasps as I tried to pull together my scattered thoughts enough to figure out what the fuck was going on. I’d been… Dad was… And now I was here, on the… floor? In…  
  
Oh.  
  
 **Oh**.  
  
“Fuck!” I groaned, letting my head drop back onto the floor of my room.  
  
Another fucking nightmare. And it had felt so goddamned real.  
  
Jesus fucking christ! Was this ever going to stop?  
  
I hadn’t gone out for a run, in the end.  
  
I’d hit the gym instead, pushing myself as close as I could get to utter exhaustion without damaging myself further, trying desperately to tire myself out enough so I could get some deep, dreamless sleep.  
  
Hadn’t fucking worked, had it?  
  
“Fuck,” I sighed.  
  
I started to pick myself up off the floor, stifling a groan as my body complained at me. My back, I understood. I had just landed on it, after all. But what the fuck was up with my wrist? Had I bashed it on the wall during all my tossing and turning?  
  
I assumed I’d been tossing and turning. I had somehow ended up on the fucking floor, after all.  
  
“Ow, fucking ow,” I muttered.  
  
The question was, just how much of a mess had I made of my bed? I mean, I distinctly remembered reaching out with my power in the fucking dream, but had I done something similar in the real world?  
  
Fuck, I hoped not.  
  
Right. I’d take a couple of breaths to collect myself, and then I’d turn on the light.  
  
For a brief moment, I half-wished I’d taken Chris up on his offer of a nightlight, but no. I wasn’t a fucking child. Anyway, I could move just fine. It barely hurt at all, and it wasn’t like I hadn’t been damaged more than this before.  
  
Okay, enough procrastinating.  
  
I crossed the room and flipped the switch, thankful that at least I didn’t have to hunt around for it. I blinked against the sudden brightness, and then looked around.  
  
Hmm.  
  
Okay. That… wasn’t too bad, I supposed. The mattress was intact, at least. And the bedding. The duvet was on the floor, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. The metal bed frame was a little… twisted. And kind of melted in places. It was also distinctly lopsided, which was probably at least part of the reason why I’d fallen onto the floor. But I was pretty sure I could fix it.  
  
Of course, first I’d have to relinquish the metal that had apparently started creeping across my skin.  
  
I sighed.  
  
It was probably a good idea. More to the point, I kind of had to if I wanted to fix the bed. And I did want to fix the bed. I needed to try to get some more sleep.  
  
No matter how little I wanted to.  
  
Maybe a shower would help.  
  
Fixing the bed didn’t actually take that long at all. It was metal, and I had a mental template. Honestly, the hardest part was making myself return the metal I’d taken from it. It helped when I replaced it with my own metal, feeling a sense of rightness as it wrapped itself around my arms.  
  
Not that the bed’s metal didn’t feel like mine, of course. But it technically belonged to the PRT, I guessed. Technically.  
  
I gathered up my toiletries — something else I was going to have to get more of at some point, I supposed. Well, I supposed technically I didn’t. There were dispensers in the showers that had some kind of combined shower gel/shampoo. I preferred my own stuff, though. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I liked the scent. Something eucalyptus-y.  
  
Yeah, a shower was as good idea. It would relax me, maybe ease some of my lingering soreness.  
  
I flexed my right hand, and winced a little.  
  
Fuck. I really must have smacked my wrist quite hard. No wonder I’d dreamed that Dad had broken it.  
  
But I didn’t want to think about that right now.  
  
(He wasn’t out there in the corridor, waiting for me.)  
  
(He wasn’t.)  
  
Alright, enough woolgathering.  
  
I left my room and headed purposefully towards the showers. Before I got there, though, one of the other doors opened, and Dennis stuck his sleep-tousled head out. I paused, startled.  
  
“Hey, Astrid,” he said, giving me a distinctly half-hearted smile.  
  
“Hi,” I replied, cursing internally. I really was not up to conversation right now. “I was just on my way to the shower, so…”  
  
I started to head past him, but he blurted out:  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
I went still. Was it really so obvious how rattled I was? Fuck. Why the hell couldn’t he have just kept his fucking door closed? I did not have the patience for this kind of bullshit right now.  
  
“Fine,” I said, flatly. I should have just left it there and moved on. What was he going to do? Freeze me? But some stupid curious impulse made me ask: “Why?”  
  
He looked away — never a good sign — and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more.  
  
“You were kind of, um, screaming. And there was a pretty loud thump.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Oh,” I said, stupidly. Should I deny it? No, I doubted I’d be able to convince him he’d simply imagined it. I made myself take a slow breath, trying to push away the unease and the first stirrings of anger that warred for pride of place inside me. Carefully, I said: “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”  
  
“What?” He looked startled. “No, that wasn’t what I meant. I wasn’t complaining.”  
  
“Well, what the fuck do you want, Dennis?” I snapped, losing my patience all of a sudden. “Because I really would like to have that shower now, if it’s all the same to you.”  
  
His eyes went wide for a moment as I practically yelled at him, but then his lips quirked in a lopsided smile and he leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms.  
  
“No need to bite my head off, New Girl,” he said, but then the smile faltered a little. Quietly, he said: “I was worried, that’s all.”  
  
“Well, don’t be,” I said, struggling not to growl the words. “I’m fine.”  
  
He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then he smirked.  
  
“So, you’re saying it was the good kind of screaming?” he said lightly.  
  
My breath caught in my throat.  
  
Without intending to move, I was suddenly halfway across the corridor, fist lashing out towards his stupid, smirking face. Almost in slow motion, I saw his eyes start to widen, his mouth beginning to shape words as he flung out a hand…  
  
And then he was gone.  
  
I looked around, confused and disoriented, but Dennis was nowhere to be seen. My confusion lasted for maybe a moment longer, and then the answer came to me; so obvious I mentally kicked myself. He must have used his power on me. That was the only explanation.  
  
Adrenaline still fizzed along my nerves, the unrealised violence making me want to just…  
  
Just…  
  
Fuck.  
  
I made myself take a deep breath, trying as hard as I could to make myself stand the fuck down.  
  
Had I actually hit him, or had he stopped me in time? No pun intended. I had no fucking clue and, honestly, right at this moment I wasn’t sure which one I’d prefer.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I glanced at the closed door to Dennis’ room, wondering if I should check on him. Apologise, maybe?  
  
Dammit.  
  
No, probably best not. For his sake.  
  
I started making my way towards the shower again, only to be startled once again by the sound of a door opening. I whirled around to see Dennis sticking his head out into the corridor, looking this way and that until he spotted me. The expression on his face was studiedly neutral.  
  
“Welcome back to the realm of time,” he said, cautiously. I just looked at him, not knowing what to say. His face didn’t have any obvious reddening or swelling, I noted. If I had actually managed to hit him, it obviously hadn’t been that hard. When I didn’t say anything, he continued: “Are you going to go for me again?”  
  
Was I? Fuck, I didn’t know. I was just so tired all of a sudden. Which… probably gave me my answer.  
  
“Not right now,” I said quietly. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Although I make no promises if you continue acting like an asshole.”  
  
“Fair enough,” he said. In what probably wasn’t the wisest of moves, he emerged more fully into the corridor and leaned on the wall. (Was he brave or just suicidal? Either way, I kind of admired the fact that he didn’t back down.) We looked at each other silently for a few moments and then, much to my surprise, he actually cracked a smile. Not much of one, maybe, but more than I would have expected under the circumstances. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”  
  
At least he didn’t call me fucking New Girl that time. That was something.  
  
“I don’t have a lot to say right now,” I said.  
  
“I kind of always have stuff to say,” he said. “Even when I probably shouldn’t. Maybe even especially when I shouldn’t.” He drew in an audible breath, giving me a rueful grin. “And I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry, Astrid.” He paused there, as if giving me the chance to respond, but I stayed silent, watching him warily. The grin turned into a frown. “You shouldn’t have tried to hit me, though,” he continued.  
  
“Tried to?” I asked.  
  
“I froze you before you made contact,” he said.  
  
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. Relief, mostly, I thought. But also… disappointment. And part of me still wanted to smack the shit out of him. I tried to push that away, telling myself that was what Lance would do. It was what Dad would do. But I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t.  
  
I would be better.  
  
“Good,” I said, shortly, trying to mean it. I took a breath. “I’m sorry I tried to hit you.” I tried to mean that, too. I studied him warily, hoping I was alert enough to spot it if he started to move towards me. “Are you going to hit me?”  
  
He just stared at me in silence, and I could not for the life of me figure out what was going through his mind. Whatever it was, it seemed to take him a couple of attempts to get the words out, and I had the sense that what he eventually ended up saying was not whatever had been on the tip of his tongue.  
  
“No, Astrid,” he said. “I’m not going to hit you.”  
  
He seemed to sag a little where he leaned against the wall. I studied him, frowning.  
  
“You look tired,” I noted.  
  
“It is the middle of the night,” he observed dryly. “Anyway, so do you.”  
  
I shrugged without thinking about it, my breath catching in my throat as my welts pulled with the motion.  
  
Landing on my back had definitely not done the healing process any good. (Nor, if I was honest with myself, had pushing myself in the gym earlier. I really needed to be more careful in the future.)  
  
“I’m fine,” I said, flatly. “Anyway,” I continued, trying to change the subject. “Why are you even here? Don’t you have a home to go to?”  
  
“I stayed late gaming, and was too lazy to go all the way home afterwards,” he said easily, shrugging. It certainly sounded like something I would expect from him. It also seemed just a little bit… glib. Like it was practiced. Like it wasn’t the whole truth.  
  
Whatever. If he wanted to keep secrets, that was entirely his prerogative. I certainly didn’t know him well enough to pry. Nor, honestly, did I care. I had my own shit to deal with right now.  
  
“Figures,” I muttered, rolling my eyes like I bought what he was selling. “Well, fun as this is, the shower is calling my name. See you tomorrow, I guess.”  
  
Not waiting for a response, I turned and strode purposefully down the corridor. Third time was the charm, right? Except not this fucking time, apparently, because I’d barely gone a couple of steps before I heard:  
  
“Um, Astrid?”  
  
God give me strength!  
  
I stopped, looking back at him over my shoulder.  
  
“What is it now, Dennis?” I let my frustration show in my voice, hoping he’d realise that he was on very thin ice right now.  
  
“You seem to be… bleeding. Your back, I mean.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Well, that was just fucking great. Of course one of the scabs had split open again. Of course it fucking had.  
  
“Thanks for the heads up,” I told him, “I’ll take care of it.”  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want a hand?” He asked, pushing off the wall and making like he was actually going to head towards me. “Let me at least take a look at it, just in case.”  
  
“I said I’ll take care of it,” I told him, and just in case the edge in my voice wasn’t enough of a fucking clue as to how I really felt, I followed that up with: “Try to touch me and I’ll break your fucking hand.”  
  
“Down, girl,” he murmured, but at least he stayed where the fuck he was, putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “You could just have said thanks, but no thanks.”  
  
(I came very close to hitting him anyway when he called me 'girl.' Pretty much the only thing that stopped me was the fact that it would have meant moving.)  
  
(But he didn't mean it the way Dad did. Anyway, he didn't know.)  
  
(Unlike my father, I was willing to accept ignorance as an excuse.)  
  
“I thought I just did,” I murmured, trying my level best not to snap at him. I took a breath; let it out in a a soft sigh. “Anyway, I am going to take that shower now. Have a good rest of the night, Dennis.”  
  
On that note, I strode determinedly towards the end of the corridor, determined that, this time, nothing was going to stop me.  
  
I almost missed Dennis’ quiet: “You too.”  
  
I pretended that I hadn’t heard him.  
  
Somehow, despite my sudden, bone-deep exhaustion, I didn’t think a good night’s sleep was on the cards.  
  
Right now, way past the witching hour, with a head full of nightmares and a body full of pain…  
  
I wasn’t sure it ever would be again.


	27. Interlude 2b: Donna

There should have been rain, Donna mused. Not the heavy kind that slapped you in the face with every drop; that stole away your breath and your sight with the shock and the cold of it. Rather, the type of light, steady, relentless drizzle that didn’t seem so bad at first, but eventually soaked all the way through your clothes, chilling you to the bone. There should have been grey clouds, not this bright sun in a clear blue sky bullshit. It felt… wrong.  
  
There should have been rain.  
  
She sighed softly to herself as she studied the burnt-out ruin of the house, allowing herself that one moment of weakness — of wishing she didn’t have to do this, not with this particular case — before deliberately straightening her spine and pulling her shoulders back.  
  
 _Okay. Time to get my game face on._  
  
Moving with quick, purposeful steps, she made her way to the all-too-familiar cordon of yellow tape, flashing her badge at the uniformed officer standing guard there.  
  
“Detective Ramirez. Homicide.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Donna felt a surge of frustration as she walked through the hopelessly contaminated scene. As if the fire itself hadn’t been bad enough, the building and everything in it was now thoroughly drenched. Plus, parts of the scene — including any information that might have been found there — had been trampled beneath the boots of the emergency responders. But that couldn’t be helped. Anyway, there was no sense crying over spilled milk. She would just have to do the best she could with what there was.  
  
She owed the victims that much.  
  
The victims.  
  
A family of four: two adults, two children.  
  
It was the children that made this hard. Everything else, she could deal with, but children always got to her.  
  
They hadn’t been killed by the smoke, or even by the fire itself. No. All four of them had been shot in the head.  
  
She studied the tableau before her. Four charred corpses scattered on the floor of the living room, all of them curled up like babies. There was a time when she might have gotten sick at a sight like this; when the combination of acrid bitterness and cloying sweetness in the air might have made her stumble out to heave her guts up in a discreet corner of the garden. Now, though, she just felt sad.  
  
And angry.  
  
 **Really** angry.  
  
Neither of which she could afford to feel right now. Now was a time for clarity and focus. The emotions could come later, when the bastard or bastards who would do a thing like this had been caught.  
  
(If they were ever caught.)  
  
(If this case didn’t end up as just another statistic.)  
  
(If it didn’t remain unsolved; one among a whole host of unsolved murders.)  
  
The crime scene technicians had finished processing the scene, and the forensic investigator was waiting to transport the bodies to the morgue, but she’d wanted to do a final walkthrough while the bodies were still in situ. It helped to fix the details in her mind.  
  
 _Better get on with it, then._  
  
She bent down, studying where the bodies lay, relative to each other and to the furniture. They were in a straight line, more or less, the adults on the left and the children on the right. She tried not to wonder about the order in which it had happened; tried not to wonder if the parents had seen their children shot dead, or if it had been the children who’d had to witness their parents’ deaths.  
  
Those kinds of thoughts just weren’t productive.  
  
Had the furniture been moved? Between the fire and the firefighters, it was hard to be sure. She thought it might have been, though. The placing of the remnants of the sofa and chairs seemed just a little bit off. And there was what looked like the remains of a coffee table — surprisingly intact, considering — shoved up against one wall. She looked around, frowning.  
  
“Who would do something like this?” murmured the uniformed officer who stood in the doorway, watching her work. He swallowed hard, looking so, terribly, terribly young all of a sudden. “Who would shoot children?”  
  
 _Why did they all look so young these days?_ Donna couldn’t help wondering.  
  
Did the department start recruiting right out of high school, or was it just that she’d gotten old without realising? Not that she felt old, at least not generally. Today, though, she was feeling every single one of her forty-mumble years.  
  
(Forty-six years on this earth. Closer to fifty than forty, now, as her darling sister kept reminding her. Too old to start a family, too old for her position in the department, too old to stay out dancing ’till dawn with the group of drunken reprobates she called her friends. Just… too old.)  
  
 _(Too old, my saggy ass!)_  
  
 _(Fuck ‘em all. You’re only as old as the man you feel, right?)_  
  
(Well, her beloved Larry was only thirty-nine. As he delighted in reminding her. Okay, maybe her husband was also a flaming ass on occasion, but for some reason she loved him anyway.)  
  
(But she was getting side-tracked.)  
  
With a confidence she didn’t quite feel, she turned to him and said: “That’s what we’re going to find out, Officer Jessop.”  
  
She just hoped she was telling the truth.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Was it usual for Mr Carmichael to miss work, Ms Simpson?” Donna asked the damp-eyed woman sitting in the chair across from her.  
  
“No, not at all,” Alice Simpson said, shaking her head vigorously. She was Mr Carmichael’s assistant at the addiction counselling centre where he worked. “James would never let a client down like that. I mean, even if there was an emergency or something and he had to cancel at the last minute, he would at least call and let me know.” She smiled a little through the tears that were starting to well up in her eyes again. “He even tells me if he’s running so much as five minutes late. But even that happens only very rarely, and only due to circumstances beyond his control. He’s very professional, and extremely dedicated to his work, and he’s… He was…” Her face seemed to almost crumple suddenly, tears streaming down her already reddened cheeks. “I just can’t believe he’s gone!”  
  
“I understand, Ms Simpson,” Donna said, her voice low and sympathetic despite her frustration.  
  
Of course the woman was upset; of course she was. Her boss — a man she clearly liked and respected — had just been murdered alongside his wife and children. Anyone would be upset. Hell, Donna herself was upset, when she allowed herself to feel it. Right now, though, what she needed were cold, hard, facts. But she knew that snapping at Ms Simpson to pull herself together would achieve nothing but distress her further. Not to mention being a supremely callous thing to do. So she made sympathetic noises, offered tissues, and just generally waited for the other woman to recover her composure a little.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Ms Simpson hiccuped. “I’m not usually like this, I swear.”  
  
“That’s alright,” Donna said gently. “And I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Mr Carmichael or his family?”  
  
“No, of course not. Everyone likes… liked… him.”  
  
“How about one of his patients?” Donna asked swiftly, before Ms Simpson could be overcome again by her grief. She searched for a way to tactfully phrase the next part. “I… understand that some of them can get quite agitated on occasion.”  
  
Especially the ones who were there because a judge had ordered it, and their only other choice was jail.  
  
“James’ clients understand that he’s — he was — trying to help them.” Ms Simpson’s tone had taken on a distinctly frosty air. “Emotions might sometimes run high, but none of them would hurt him.”  
  
Donna cursed internally at her slip.  
  
“My apologies,” she said, hoping she hadn’t put Ms Simpsons’ back up too much. “But we have to consider all the possibilities, even though we’ll probably end up ruling most of them out. I’m not accusing anyone. I just want to find out who killed Mr Carmichael. James.”  
  
And Alexandra.  
  
And Stephen,  
  
Not to mention Kendra.  
  
Ms Simpson sighed, slumping a little in her seat. “I know, and I understand that.” She took a breath. “Obviously, there are details I won’t be able to share due to confidentiality concerns, but other than that: what do you want to know?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Where were you? Taking a siesta?”  
  
Donna looked over at where Carr was lounging behind his desk, indulging in a brief fantasy of striding over there and giving the ignorant prick a piece of her mind. Alas, it was bound to remain a fantasy. Pissing him off would not end well for her.  
  
“Working a case,” she said shortly, heading to her own desk to update her case file and check a few things before her next appointment.  
  
“What case?” he wanted to know, making like he was genuinely interested.  
  
She wanted nothing more than to just ignore him, she nevertheless answered his question: “The Carmichael case.”  
  
“That… black family that got shot?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She kept her eyes on her work, hoping he would take the hint and leave her alone.  
  
“Robbery, obviously,” he said dismissively.  
  
“We don’t know what it was yet,” she replied, with what she felt was admirable patience. She couldn’t however, keep the sarcastic edge out of her voice completely as she added: “That’s why it’s called a murder investigation.”  
  
“So what were you ‘investigating’ just now?” he asked, and just because he didn’t physically make the asshole quotes with his fingers didn’t mean that she couldn’t hear them loud and clear in his voice. She seriously did not have time for this. There were things she needed to do; people she needed to talk to. But maybe if she answered his question, he’d actually let her get back to work.  
  
“I went to the kids’ schools,” she said.  
  
“Seriously?” he said, laughing. “What, you think this was a playground spat got out of hand? Should we be looking for a grade schooler with a gun?”  
  
She bristled at his cavalier tone, but tried not to show it.  
  
 _Would it kill him to have a little goddamn respect?_  
  
“Mr Carmichael didn’t show up to work on the day of the fire,” she said, tightly. “I wanted to check whether the children made it to school, but the administrator wouldn’t release the information over the phone. I had to go in person and flash my badge.”  
  
“And?” he said.  
  
She sighed. “Neither Alexandra nor Stephen showed up to class, and their parents didn’t call in sick for them.”  
  
“So the Carmichaels were having a lazy day. Or they were already dead. What does it matter?”  
  
Donna made herself count to three before speaking.  
  
“The fire wasn’t started until late afternoon,” she said, knowing that Carr almost certainly knew this. Either way, he was undoubtedly just trying to wind her up. And it was damn well working. “We don’t have any idea of the family’s movements until then. I’m trying to establish a timeline of events.”  
  
“Sounds like a whole lot of effort for a whole lot of nothing if you ask me,” he said. “But whatever floats your boat.”  
  
Mercifully, he went back to whatever he’d been doing before she’d turned up. Scratching his ass, probably. Honestly, she didn’t care as long as he left her alone to do her job.  
  
Speaking of which…  
  
Checking the time, she picked up her desk phone and made a call.  
  
“Brockton Bay Medical Examiner’s Office,” a slightly harassed-sounding male voice eventually answered.  
  
“Yes, hello,” Donna said. “This is Detective Donna Ramirez over in Homicide. I was wondering if you could update me on the progress of a case. The case number is…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Mrs Carmichael just left? Without telling anyone?” Donna asked, studying the man over the towering stack of papers that almost blocked him from view. Mr Anand Gupta seemed to be in a state of shock, the mug in his hand frozen between the desk and his lips for the past couple of minutes as if he’d forgotten he’d picked it up.  
  
“Mr Gupta?” she prompted.  
  
“What? Oh, sorry. Yes she did. I didn’t even know she’d gone until I went to her office for a meeting. I was… It was supposed to be a quick chat to update her on the progress of one of my cases. But she wasn’t there, and she hadn’t left me a message or anything, so I asked around and Pauline said she’d seen her heading out with her coat and bag.” Once he’d started talking, it was like he couldn’t stop. “Pauline asked her where she was heading, but Kendra didn’t even look at her. But then Pauline realised that she was on her phone. She looked upset, so she thought that maybe it was bad news or something.”  
  
“Had she ever done that before?” Donna interjected, before he could ramble on further. “Just taken off?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Certainly not that I remember.” He gave a wan smile. “She was more likely to come in early and stay late. She’s… She was very driven.”  
  
Something she’d apparently had in common with her husband, Donna noted. An addiction counsellor and a Child Protective Services supervisor. Neither of those were exactly easy jobs. She wondered if they’d met through their work, or if that was just a coincidence.  
  
It likely wasn’t at all relevant to their murders, but she couldn’t help wondering.  
  
(Technically, she supposed she’d met Larry through work. She’d arrested him for civil disobedience back when she was still in uniform. She hadn’t wanted to — he’d been at an anti-E88 rally, for crying out loud; she would rather have pinned a medal on him than put him in handcuffs — but she’d been a rookie at the time, and her supervising officer had insisted. Much to her shame, she’d kept her objections to herself, not wanting to rock the boat.)  
  
(Larry had been remarkably understanding about the whole thing, considering.)  
  
(She’d attended the next rally as a civilian, not a cop, having some stupid idea about making up for what happened last time by swelling their numbers, if only by one. Like one person could really make a difference in the grand scheme of things. Larry had been there, of course, right in the thick of the action. She’d gone to talk to him, and then chickened out, but he’d seen her as she was trying to sidle away and come over to talk to her. Well, less ‘talk to’ and more ‘hit on.’ Assuming he hadn’t recognised her out of uniform, she’d tried to extricate herself gracefully. Just as she was walking away, though, he’d made some crack about preferring to get to know a woman before she put him in handcuffs, not after. At that point, it became clear that he’d known exactly who she was.)  
  
(After that, well, the rest wasn’t exactly history, but it was something. They’d hooked up, drifted apart, become friends, played matchmaker for each other, hooked up again, become best friends, and generally circled around each other until, somehow, they’d ended up married.)  
  
(She’d kept her own name, of course. Even if her mother had been scandalised.)  
  
(Even after all this time, Larry still made jokes about her putting him in handcuffs before finding out his name.)  
  
(Damn. This case really had her mind wandering.)  
  
“Did you see Mrs Carmichael at all while she was here?” Donna asked Mr Gupta.  
  
“No, I didn’t,” he said. Finally seeming to remember his coffee, he took a drink of it, grimaced and then set it back down. “I had a home visit that morning. But I know John and Yvette spoke to her and, like I said, Pauline saw her leave. Do you want to talk to them?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“She seemed really… distracted,” said John Parker. “Lost in her own little world. It took me a couple of tries to get her attention. I asked if anything was wrong, and she said she was fine.”  
  
“Did you believe her?” Donna asked.  
  
“Well… no. Not really. But she clearly didn’t want to talk about it, and she seemed to be in a hurry to get to her office. Anyway, I had my own work to be getting on with, so I thought I’d just catch up with her later.” He stopped suddenly, a stricken expression on his face. “Maybe if I’d made more of an effort, she’d still be… They’d all be…”  
  
“There’s no way of knowing that, Mr Parker,” Donna said quickly. “You absolutely cannot blame yourself. This is the fault of whoever did this: no one else.” Taking a gamble, she said: “I don’t think Mrs Carmichael — Kendra — would have wanted you to blame yourself, would she?”  
  
He just stared at her for a moment, and then sighed softly.  
  
“No, I suppose not.”  
  
She gave him a moment, and then asked: “Is there anything else you can think of? Anything at all? No matter how unimportant it seems?”  
  
He thought for a moment.  
  
“She didn’t make tea.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Mr Parker gave her a wan smile.  
  
“I know it sounds stupid, but you said, anything, so…”  
  
“Go on, Mr Parker.” She tried to sound as encouraging as she could. It probably wasn’t anything, but then again it might be. At this point, she’d take any lead she could.  
  
“Well, she always made a mug of tea as soon as she got in. It was… kind of a tradition. Beth — her predecessor — did the same thing. She’s the one who got Kendra into drinking tea in the first place. So, every morning without fail, she would go to the kitchen and make herself a mug of tea.”  
  
“And she didn’t do that yesterday morning?”  
  
“No. She just went straight to her office.”  
  
Donna thought for a moment, tapping her pen against her notebook.  
  
“Do you know if she stayed in her office up until she left the building?”  
  
“I’m not sure. I know Yvette spoke to her at some point, but I don’t know where that was.” He spread his hands, looking a little helpless. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”  
  
“You are helping, Mr Parker,” she assured him. “I know it might not seem like it, but every little detail adds up.”  
  
She just wished she knew what they were adding up to.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I needed her to sign off on an expense claim,” Yvette Reynolds explained. “So I went to see her in her office.”  
  
“How did she seem to you?” Donna asked.  
  
“Jumpy,” Ms Reynolds said, frowning.  
  
“In what way?”  
  
“Just… really nervous. And when I handed her my form to sign, she turned her monitor around.” She shrugged. “Not that I could see it anyway, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she murmured, more to herself than to Donna. “And James, and Alex, and Stephen. I just…” She bit her lip.  
  
“Did you know the family well?” Donna asked, her voice sympathetically.  
  
“Fairly well, yeah,” Ms Reynolds said. “We’d have… Doing a job like this, you either want to leave it completely behind when you leave for the day, or you kind of… hang out with your colleagues and people who work in similar fields because they’re the only ones who really know what it’s like, you know?” She sighed. “I guess you know what that’s like, though, being a cop.”  
  
Donna nodded. “Yes, I know.”  
  
(She’d never been able to leave the job behind, not really. And not all of her colleagues were assholes; just a lot of them. Not for the first time, she reflected with some bemusement on the make-up of her social circle: a strange mix of emergency service workers and ageing hippies. Not that there wasn’t some overlap between the two groups, of course, but still. It was kind of… eclectic.)  
  
(Personally, she blamed Larry for corrupting her. He, of course, said it was the other way around.)  
  
“Well,” Ms Reynolds continued, giving her a wavering smile. “Kendra was one of the ones who socialised. A lot of us here are, honestly. And we kind of tend to end up dragging our families into it.” The smile faded. “You will find out who did this, won’t you? You won’t let them get away with it?”  
  
“I’m going to do my very best, Ms Reynolds,” Donna said.  
  
That, at least, was something she could promise.  
  
Even if she couldn’t promise that she’d succeed.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“What do you mean, it wasn’t her phone?” Donna asked, frowning.  
  
Pauline Evans shrugged, looking completely overwhelmed.  
  
“It… wasn’t her phone. Kendra’s phone had a pink case, and she had all these… things… dangling from it. Key fobs, charms; that kind of thing.” She gave a short laugh that sounded more like a sob. “It looked more like a teenager’s phone than one a grown woman ought to carry. I teased her about it no end. It was… It was kind of a running joke between us.”  
  
Donna considered that for a moment, tapping her pen restlessly against her notebook.  
  
“And when you saw her leaving, she was holding a different phone?” she asked slowly.  
  
“Right,” Ms Evans said, nodding. “This was kind of plain. Grey, I think, or maybe dark blue. Not a smartphone. Definitely not Kendra’s phone.”  
  
Huh. Well, that was interesting.  
  
“Did you happen to hear anything of her conversation?”  
  
“Not really,” Ms Evans said. “Well, a little. She was leaving right away, and she’d be back soon. She sounded really upset. I don’t think she even noticed me at all.” She gave Donna an expression that was part hopeful and a whole lot sad. “Was that helpful?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Reynolds. It was very helpful.”  
  
At least, she hoped it was.  
  
It was something, anyway.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I appreciate that you’re very busy, Dr Emerson,” Donna said, trying very hard not to grit her teeth. “And I understand that you have other cases. But it would be extremely helpful if you could get the preliminary autopsy report to me by the end of the day. I’m terribly sorry to impose, and I’m sure you must have a dozen other people making similar requests, but the family are looking for answers, and I would like to be able to tell them something… Oh, you will? Thank you so much, Dr Emerson. I really and truly appreciate this. And-“  
  
He hung up.  
  
Of course he hung up.  
  
Donna tried to push away her annoyance. She knew the Medical Examiner’s office really was overworked and understaffed, and she totally understood that she wasn’t the only person prodding them to hurry the hell up. But they’d already performed the autopsy. All she was asking for was the preliminary report. They had promised her she’d have it first thing in the morning, and it was already nearly noon. Could they really blame her for trying to hurry them along? It was just… She hated having to grovel just to persuade someone to their job. Especially when it was something like this.  
  
But there was really no point in getting worked up about it. It was what it was.  
  
She was, however, pleasantly surprised to receive an e-mail a few minutes later with the Carmichaels’ autopsy results attached.  
  
There were the expected caveats about difficulties posed due to the fire, but that couldn’t be helped. The salient points, though…  
  
The fire had more than likely been started post-mortem.  
  
The cause of death was the same for each person: being shot in the head. Twice.  
  
James Carmichael had also been severely beaten.  
  
That… fit with certain ideas she’d started to put together.  
  
It was starting to fit surprisingly well.  
  
The trouble was that she couldn’t prove any of it.  
  
Not without more evidence.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Thanks, Geoff,” Donna said, smiling despite the fact the person on the other end couldn’t see her. “I owe you one.” She listened for a few moments, and then laughed. “It’s a deal. See you when I see you.”  
  
Her smile faded as soon as she hung up. It had been kind of nice, catching up with her old friend, but she couldn’t afford to forget the reasons for it.  
  
Alexandra.  
  
Stephen.  
  
James.  
  
Kendra.  
  
Hopefully, Geoff would manage to expedite those ballistics results for her. She really hoped so, otherwise it was going to be quite a wait.  
  
She was tired of waiting. And so was Captain Harris. She just hoped the captain gave her the time she needed to do this right.  
  
The Carmichaels deserved for this to be done right.  
  
They deserved justice.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“It’s obviously gang-related,” Captain Harris said, impatiently. “You said it yourself, Ramirez: the gun at the scene was probably used in a previous gang shootout. The victims were shot execution style. What more do you want?”  
  
“I just think there’s more to it than that, Captain,” Donna said, striving to sound calm and reasonable. She wouldn’t want to be thought ‘shrill’ and ‘emotional’ after all. Or, heaven forbid, ‘angry’. Even though she was pretty damned furious right now. “The gun was almost certainly the same weapon we previously tied to the Empire. And-“  
  
“So put it down as a hate crime if you really must,” Harris interrupted. “But there were no witnesses, and the fire meant we’ve got sweet fuck all in the way of forensic evidence beyond the gun — which had no useable prints — and the bodies themselves. You know, and I know, that chances of tracking down some random gangbanger with what we have are slim to none. No, unless we manage to pick them up for something else, the killer is long gone.”  
  
Donna took a slow breath.  
  
“But what if it wasn’t just a random gangbanger?” she asked quietly. “And what if it wasn’t just a hate crime?”  
  
Harris leaned back in his chair, frowning.  
  
“Explain,” he said.  
  
“James Carmichael and the children stayed home from work and school, respectively,” Donna said, talking quickly so as to get everything out that she wanted to say before Harris shut her down. “Kendra Carmichael went to work, but she broke her usual routine and she was nervous enough that everyone who saw or spoke to her picked up on it. She didn’t seem to want one of her colleagues to see whatever she was working on in her office. Plus, she was seen talking on a different phone to her usual one, telling someone that she was on her way back.”  
  
“I hope you’re going somewhere with this, Ramirez,” Harris said, warningly.  
  
Donna only just stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Much though he sometimes pretended otherwise, Harris wasn’t actually stupid. He hadn’t just got his position because he had the right friends. He saw where she was going with this; he just didn’t want to acknowledge it. It would make his life complicated. Harris… was allergic to complicated.  
  
Still, if he wanted her to spell it out…  
  
“I think Kendra’s husband and children were being held hostage,” she said, tightly. “I think someone wanted information that she had access to. I think they beat her husband and threatened to do more. I think they forced her to go and them what they wanted, and then they killed the whole family and burned the house down to cover their tracks.”  
  
Harris looked at her. She looked at him.  
  
“What do you think they wanted from her?” he asked, the question sounding like it emerged only reluctantly.  
  
“A kid,” she said, quietly. “I think some nazi had their child taken away and, rather than going through the courts to try to get them back, they decided to take a more direct route. So they grabbed the one person they could guarantee had access to the case file — the supervisor of the Brockton Bay CPS branch — and made her look it up for them.”  
  
She paused there, trying to gauge Harris’ reaction. He regarded her impassively for a few moments and then sighed.  
  
“Interesting theory, Ramirez,” he said. “But you’ll never prove it.”  
  
“We can check which file Kendra looked up,” Donna said, but Harris was shaking his head almost before she’d finished speaking.  
  
“You really think you’re going to get a warrant to look at confidential CPS files on nothing more than a hunch?” He snorted derisively. “Good luck with that. If it’s all the same to you, though, I’d just as soon avoid bringing the wrath of the judges down on this department for making frivolous requests.”  
  
As far as Donna was concerned, it was a bit more than just a hunch, but she knew better than to press right now. She did have another avenue she could try, though.  
  
“Alright,” she said, keeping her voice level. “But if my theory is right, the killer must have had some way of identifying their target, which means they were likely watching the CPS office.”  
  
“Your point?” Harris asked warily.  
  
“Canvas the area, interview the CPS workers, check CCTV footage,” she said. “See who pops up.”  
  
But Harris was already shaking his head, and she knew, deep in her gut, that this case was over for her. That it would never be resolved.  
  
That she would never find the bastard who murdered that poor family.  
  
She would try to argue, of course, but she knew it would fail. She’d try to pursue the case in her own time, but without support from her department, from her captain, it was a long shot at best.  
  
She would never find that justice she’d been looking for.  
  
Not for Alexandra.  
  
Not for Stephen.  
  
Not for James.  
  
Not for Kendra.  
  
So why did she keep trying?  
  
Why did she keep doing this, even though more and more these days it seemed to end up the same damn way?  
  
What the hell was the point?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Bad day?” Larry asked quietly. He’d taken one look at her and immediately broken out the red wine.  
  
“Yeah,” Donna agreed, sinking onto the sofa with a sigh.  
  
“Want to talk about it?” He sat down next her, holding out a glass that she accepted gratefully. Part of her was tempted to just tip the whole thing down her throat, but she made herself stick to small sips, savouring the taste.  
  
“Later,” she said.  
  
“Okay.” Larry slid his arm around her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “Want to hear about my day?”  
  
“Sounds good to me,” she said, mustering up a smile.  
  
But as Larry talked, she found that her thoughts kept returning to the Carmichaels.  
  
To Alexandra.  
  
To Stephen.  
  
To James.  
  
To Kendra.  
  
To four bodies laid out in a row.  
  
To two children shot dead and left to burn alongside their parents.  
  
And, underneath the despair, the anger, the sadness; under all that she felt something else.  
  
Determination.  
  
Why did she keep trying?  
  
Because maybe the odds weren’t great, but they were a damn sight better than if she did nothing at all.  
  
Why did she keep doing this?  
  
Because someone had to and, for all her moaning and complaining, she knew she was too damn stubborn to quit.  
  
What was the point of it all?  
  
The point was to do what she could, no matter how little that was.  
  
The point was that maybe, sometimes, one person really could make a difference, but only if they tried.  
  
The point was that, above everything, she did this for them: the victims, the families.  
  
And she was going to keep on doing it.  
  
No matter what.


	28. Aphenphosmphobia 3.01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter, even for me, but I couldn't see a good place to split it.

Standing in the doorway was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.  
  
Her smile could light up the whole world, let alone one single room. There was a lithe strength to her, a grace and ease to her moments, to how she held herself. This girl was dangerous, a part of me whispered, but if anything that just added to her beauty.  
  
It was more than just any one feature. It was everything. It was just… her.  
  
There were other people with her, I was distantly aware, but they didn’t seem important. One of them was saying something, but I couldn’t bring myself to pay attention. Not when…  
  
“Oh. Right,” **she** said, and her voice was just as beautiful as the rest of her, low and musical and…  
  
What the fuck?  
  
I blinked, shaking my head to try to clear away the confused mortification that turned my cheeks bright crimson beneath my mask. Had I seriously just sat here frozen like a deer in headlights, staring at some… some strange girl?  
  
What the actual fuck?  
  
“Sorry about that,” said the (beautiful) stranger, smiling brightly at me (if not with quite the megawatt brilliance of a moment ago). “I get a little carried away sometimes. Let’s try that again.” She strode confidently into the room and, rather than coming to a halt on the other side of the desk, she walked around it until she was standing right next to me. That feeling of strength, of danger; that hadn’t changed, but I was still reeling too much from whatever the fuck that had been to really react to it. I didn’t tense up when she moved in close like she belonged there, and I didn’t even have to suppress a flinch when she held out her hand and said: “Hi. I’m Victoria.”  
  
“Hi,” I echoed dazedly, shaking her slim, strong hand. (Her skin was so soft; unlike mine with its callouses and scars.) “I’m Astrid.”  
  
I had just a moment to register that her handshake was firmer than I would have expected before she used that one-handed grip to draw me effortlessly to my feet and pull me into a hug. I let out a small, startled noise (okay, maybe it was more of a squeak than I really felt comfortable admitting to myself) and almost, **almost** shoved her away. I really wasn’t one for hugs, nor any other kind of unexpected, unwanted touch. But, for some reason, instead of acting on that ingrained, violent impulse, I… just let this… Victoria person… hug me.  
  
(It was kind of… nice.)  
  
(She smelled like springtime; a fresh, floral scent I couldn’t quite identify.)  
  
“Nice to meet you, Astrid,” she said. Unlike the handshake, the hug was cautious, almost gentle; like she had to be careful with her strength. (Just like a… Like…) Even so, I twitched a little when she pressed on one of my healing welts, my breath hissing sharply through my teeth before I could stop it. “Oops, sorry,” she said, releasing me.  
  
I was relieved when she pulled away and took a step back, giving me some space.  
  
(I felt weirdly bereft, missing the brief warmth and pressure of the physical contact.)  
  
“Nice to meet you too,” I said, belatedly, wondering who the hell she was and why she looked so familiar.  
  
“How about I make proper introductions,” said another voice, a familiar voice, making me start a little. I glanced over towards the doorway (why was it so hard for me to tear my gaze away from Victoria?) to see Dean giving her a look of fond exasperation.  
  
Fuck!  
  
I really was tired.  
  
I guessed a fortnight of barely getting any sleep had taken its toll on me.  
  
It wasn’t just Dean I’d missed, either. There was another strange girl standing beside him. She wasn’t nearly so… luminous… as Victoria, though, being kind of skinny, with frizzy brown hair. The expression on her face made me think of someone who’d just bitten into something unexpectedly sour. Well, it was until she saw me looking at her, and then it just became inscrutable.  
  
“If you must,” Victoria said airily, drawing my attention back to her. She grinned at me. “Dean’s such a gentleman,” she told me, like she was confiding a secret.  
  
Dean cleared his throat. “Astrid, let me introduce Victoria and Amy Dallon.” Victoria gave me a wave and a smile. Amy just nodded. Dean gave me a small, slightly rueful-looking smile. “I’m sorry about the three of us descending on you like this without warning. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing.” He raised his hand to his mouth, lowering his voice to a mock-whisper. “Victoria insisted.”  
  
“Oh, pshaw,” she said, waving a hand lazily in his direction. I raised my eyebrows a little in surprise. I had never, in my whole life, heard anyone actually say the word ‘pshaw.’ I mean, I’d read it in books, but that was all. Somehow, Victoria made it seem perfectly normal. “You make me sound like the most dreadful bully.”  
  
Dean laughed, his eyes sparkling in a way that I’d never really seen before as grinned at her. “Well,” he said, his tone mischievous. “If the shoe fits…”  
  
Victoria whirled on him, her eyes narrowing, but a grin of her own played about her lips as she retorted: “You are so going to pay for that.”  
  
He started to reply, but I wasn’t paying attention because the pieces had finally, finally snapped into place and I realised something that should have been pretty fucking obvious right from the moment I’d first looked up to see ‘Victoria’ standing there (like the sun incarnate, incandescent).  
  
“You’re Glory Girl!” I blurted out like an idiot, following up a beat later with the equally obvious: “And Panacea.”  
  
Oh, thank fuck!  
  
Glory Girl, with her aura of… of… whatever the fuck that had been. Whatever it was, I sure as shit wouldn’t call it terror. But that was the reason I’d sat there frozen, staring at her like a idiot.  
  
(It wasn’t any other reason. Like weakness, or… or… anything.)  
  
Why I’d let her hug me without so much as a peep of protest.  
  
(Why it had felt so good.)  
  
“That’s right!” Victoria said, smiling at me. To my surprise, she didn’t sound at all like she was mocking me for my slowness, and her smile seemed completely genuine.  
  
I found myself smiling back at her. In the background, I thought I saw Amy roll her eyes, but too much of my attention was on Victoria to be completely certain of what I saw. In any case, another connection clicked into place in my mind, and I almost groaned aloud.  
  
“That was why Dean looked so familiar,” I murmured. I glanced over at him. “It’s been bugging me since you first unmasked, but I’ve seen your picture on Glory Girl’s wiki page.” I shook my head. “Dean Stansfield, Glory Girl’s boytoy.” Belatedly, it occurred to me that I probably shouldn’t have said that last part aloud. I winced. “Um, sorry. But, uh, that was the caption on the photo.”  
  
I couldn’t believe it had taken me this long to put that together. Fuck, I was supposed to be trained in this kind of shit. And I’d fucking studied Dean as well. Technically, I’d studied him in both of his identities, but I’d had no idea at the time that Dean Stansfield of the Brockton Bay Stansfields — Glory Girl’s boytoy — and Gallant of the Wards were one and the same person.  
  
(I tried not to think about why I’d studied him. Especially why I’d studied him in his civilian identity.)  
  
(‘It’s not enough just to study your target. You have to look at everyone close to them as well. Family, friends, lovers; even co-workers. Any and all of these can be used to apply pressure, or to send a message. Just make sure that you don’t make threats you aren’t prepared to carry out. You never know when some fucker’s going to try to call your bluff.’)  
  
“Dammit, Victoria,” Dean sighed, but he seemed more resigned than annoyed. “Did you change it again?”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, blinking innocently at him. Unlike Dennis, she really could pull off the innocent look. But that was spoiled somewhat when the expression morphed into a truly wicked smile. (My cheeks heated again for some reason.) “Anyway, are you really complaining?”  
  
Dean gave her a very unimpressed look. It… wasn’t half as unimpressed as the one that Amy levelled at him, though. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it was an outright glare, if only a brief one.  
  
“I think,” Dean said dryly, seemingly oblivious to Amy’s reaction. “That this is neither the time nor the place for that conversation.”  
  
“You’re probably right,” Victoria said, nodding. She turned her attention back to me again. The effect was not unlike suddenly finding myself under the glare of a powerful spotlight. Wow. That aura of hers was powerful, even if, compared to when she’d first showed up in the doorway, she was clearly reining it in right now. “I hope you don’t mind us dropping in on you like this, but I really wanted to meet you.”  
  
A horrible thought occurred to me.  
  
Dean was dating Glory Girl. So, when I’d dragged him away from his girlfriend last Sunday, I’d dragged him away from her. Which meant the girl I’d pissed off by ruining her date was standing right in front of me. And, if what I knew about her abilities was correct, she could flatten me without so much breaking a sweat.  
  
Shit.  
  
If my information was right, she might even be stronger and harder to hurt than Dad. Maybe.  
  
My throat felt dry all of a sudden, my heart hammering against my ribcage, but when I searched her face for signs of anger, I didn’t see so much as an iota of it.  
  
“I’m sorry I interrupted your date last week,” I said softly, before I’d consciously made up my mind to speak. “I wouldn’t have called, but…”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said, and her voice was gentle. My stomach flip-flopped uncertainly as she patted my hand — what did she know? What had Dean told her? — but then she dialled her smile up a notch and the concerns seemed to fly right out of my head. “I like to meet all the new Wards,” she told me cheerfully. “I mean, chances are we’re going to end up working together at some point, right? So why not get to know each other before the fists start flying?”  
  
“I guess,” I said, a little bemusedly. It did make sense, I supposed. I just… wished I’d had a little warning first. The mask-up alarm didn’t really count.  
  
“I like your bracelets, by the way,” Victoria said, apropos of nothing, gesturing towards my metal.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, pleased. I’d been working on making it look more decorative, in preparation for the inevitable moment when I had to step outside the PRT building in my civilian guise. No fucking way I was going anywhere unarmed. It just wasn’t an option. I’d had some success with concealing some of it in my clothing, and I had some of it wrapped around my ankles, but I preferred to leave at least some of it in its usual place. Which meant disguising it as something innocuous.  
  
Hopefully, people would just think I had a penchant for chunky metal bangles and bracelets.  
  
I tried to kick my brain into gear.  
  
“Um, would any of you like something to drink?” I offered. “I was just about to make myself a coffee.”  
  
Not that caffeine had really been doing that much for me over the past day or so, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Anyway, I kind of felt like I needed a moment or so to catch my breath.  
  
“I wouldn’t mind a diet lemonade if you have any, thanks,” Victoria said. “And Amy will have an orange juice, won’t you Ames?”  
  
“Sure,” Amy said, shrugging. “Thanks,” she added, after a moment.  
  
“I’ll happily take a tea, but I’ll come and give you a hand,” Dean said, giving me a smile before turning to the Dallon sisters and saying: “Why don’t the two of you go and make yourselves comfortable on the sofa?”  
  
Victoria looked at him for a moment and then nodded decisively. “Will you see if there are any chocolate chip cookies? Amy skipped breakfast this morning, and you know how cranky she can get when she’s hungry.”  
  
“I do not get cranky!” Amy protested, crankily, only to yelp as Victoria took her by the arm and cheerfully manhandled her out of the room.  
  
“Of course you don’t, Ames,” she said, giving her sister a fond look. “Honestly, you’d think a healer would be better about eating…”  
  
I stared after the two of them as they disappeared from view, bickering good-naturedly. At least, I thought it was good-natured. Victoria certainly seemed cheerful enough, but I had trouble reading Amy. Although, if I was honest, I had to admit I’d barely even tried. When Victoria was around, it was kind of hard to pay attention to anyone else.  
  
I shook my head to try to clear it, saved my progress in the course module I’d been working on — not as much as I would have preferred, given the fuzziness of my thoughts — and logged out of the machine.  
  
“I’ll see you in the kitchen,” Dean said.  
  
“See you there,” I replied absently.  
  
Once he’d gone, I lingered in the office perhaps a little longer than I needed to, taking my time straightening up the work area and gathering my things. I just… needed a moment, that was all.  
  
A moment to catch my breath, and process the fact that Dean was dating **Glory Girl**.  
  
And that she’d wanted to meet me.  
  
Okay.  
  
Maybe I was going to need another moment.  
  
Maybe even two.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I really am sorry,” Dean said.  
  
“That’s alright,” I said absently as I clicked the filter into place on the coffee machine and pressed the start button. “I wasn’t really getting anywhere in the course anyway. Maybe it’ll do me good to take a short break.”  
  
(Even as the words came out of my mouth, I cringed inside at the thought of what my father would do if he heard me say that. I tried not to dwell on it.)  
  
“Or a longer one,” he said, looking at me thoughtfully. “You know, it is Saturday. And you are allowed to take some time for yourself every once in a while.” He paused in the middle of setting out some cookies on a plate, one side of his mouth curved up in a crooked smile. “In fact, you’re actually required to do so. It’s right there in the Youth Guard’s policy guidelines, which I know you’ve read.” I silently conceded him that point. Alas, not content with merely scoring a hit, he went for the decapitation strike. “What do you think Beth would say if she thought you were running yourself into the ground?”  
  
I winced internally. I’d already gotten one lecture from Ms Grant this week about there being ’more to life than work.’ I really didn’t want another one.  
  
But I had a lot to do. I couldn’t afford to slack off.  
  
(Anyway, the reasons why I was tired had absolutely nothing to do with working too hard.)  
  
“I’m not running myself into the ground,” I protested, my point somewhat undermined by the yawn that came out of nowhere and threatened to split my face in two.  
  
“I can see that,” he murmured dryly. I was too busy yawning to respond verbally, so I contented myself with a glare instead. For a guy who called himself Gallant, he could be really fucking sarcastic when he wanted to be. But he redeemed himself a little when he continued: “But you know your limits better than I do. I’m not going to push.”  
  
“Probably wise,” I murmured, rolling my eyes. I retrieved a couple of glasses and mugs from the cupboard.  
  
Dean grinned and went over to the fridge, pulling out the juice and diet lemonade.  
  
“Anyway,” he said, his expression turning serious. “That wasn’t what I was apologising for.”  
  
“Oh?” I eyed him curiously as I set the glasses and mug down on the counter next to him. “Then what were you apologising for?”  
  
He sighed. “I… kind of told Victoria you’re living here at the Wards HQ.” I froze, and he winced. “I didn’t mean to, but she’s been asking about you, and she’s kind of persistent. But that isn’t an excuse, and I’m really sorry. I just thought you should know.”  
  
“I see,” I said, a little stiffly, trying to keep my temper at bay. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it could be. “Does she know why I’m staying here?”  
  
Was she like the rest of them? Did she think of me as a fucking victim?  
  
Dean tensed a little. I guessed I wasn’t doing such a sterling job of not looking angry, but then, I wasn’t really trying all that hard.  
  
“She figured it out,” he said quietly. “The important parts, anyway.” By which he meant she’d figured out my cover story. “I didn’t confirm it, but she knows me well enough that I didn’t really have to.” He sighed softly. “I have no poker face when it comes to my girlfriend.”  
  
He sounded kind of miserable. On the one hand, I felt a little sorry for him. On the other, though, I was pretty fucking furious.  
  
(Not to mention utterly, completely humiliated.)  
  
My fury vastly outweighed my sympathy right about now.  
  
“Is that why she’s here?” I asked carefully, telling myself that I liked Dean. More importantly, I owed him.  
  
(If he hadn’t given me his card, if he hadn’t picked up the phone, if he hadn’t brought me to the PRT… I didn’t want to think about where I would be right now.)  
  
I didn’t really want to slam his head into the counter. No matter how fucking good it would feel to lash out at him. “Because she feels sorry for me?”  
  
Because he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.  
  
(Even though he didn’t know nearly as much about me as he thought he did.)  
  
Metal was already beginning to slide over my skin, but I stopped it with an effort, just about managing not to clench my fists. It was a very, very close thing.  
  
“No,” he said, meeting my gaze levelly, even though he held himself like he was expecting a fight. “It’s nothing like that, I swear. It’s what she said: she likes to meet all the new Wards.” He shrugged, his serious expression softening a little. “Victoria tends to say what she means and mean what she says.” He gave me a rueful smile. “Maybe sometimes she says a little too much, but that’s part of her charm.”  
  
I thought about how it had felt when she’d stood there and smiled at me with her aura on… Was that even full blast? Was it even anywhere close? God, just how powerful could it get? And even when she turned it down, there was something… compelling about her. Magnetic, even.  
  
I could well believe she was hard to resist if she set her mind to something.  
  
Not that I was any less angry with Dean for blurting out my circumstances without so much as a by your leave, but maybe I could understand why he would. Maybe.  
  
“Was it her aura?” I asked, after turning that over in my mind. “Was that why you told her?”  
  
Dean was quiet for a moment. “Her aura doesn’t work on me,” he said softly. “So, much though I would like to claim otherwise, I don’t actually have an excuse. I’m just not very good at keeping things from Victoria.”  
  
If he’d tried to make excuses, or to tell me it wasn’t that bad, or that it didn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, I thought I really would have smacked him. As it was, though…  
  
Fuck it. I was too tired for this.  
  
Anyway, thumping Glory Girl’s boyfriend when she was practically right next door did not seem like it would ultimately be good for my health. No matter how satisfying it might feel in the short term.  
  
And I was better than that. I would have to be better than that.  
  
(I wouldn’t be like them.)  
  
I’d already slipped once this week. Twice if you counted what happened with Chris. (Three times, if you counted the wrist-lock I’d put Dennis in, but I wasn’t entirely sure I did. That, after all, hadn’t been down to temper.) I wasn’t going to do so again, no matter the temptation.  
  
“Duly noted,” I said, my voice cold. “In future, I’ll make sure not to tell you anything I want you to keep to yourself.”  
  
“I guess I deserved that,” he murmured, wincing.  
  
I didn’t answer, and he didn’t say anything further. We finished preparing the refreshments in silence.  
  
Was I being unreasonable, being mad at him about this? I had no fucking clue. All I knew was that it made me feel really fucking (vulnerable) uncomfortable, knowing that yet another goddamn person ‘knew’ that I’d run away from home because my father hit me. And if Victoria knew that, did that mean Amy did too? And what about my other team mates? Had any of them blabbed to significant others, or families, or whoever?  
  
How many more people would be thinking of me as that pathetic girl who couldn’t cope with a few bruises?  
  
But, then again, it wasn’t like I hadn’t known people were going to be thinking of me as weak. And I’d certainly known I wasn’t going to be able to control the spread of that information once I’d let it free. Plus, I guessed I hadn’t explicitly told him not to tell anyone who didn’t need to know. (Even though I’d kind of assumed that went without saying.)  
  
So, when all was said and done, what was the fucking point in being angry just because Dean had answered some of his girlfriend’s questions about the person who interrupted their date?  
  
I sighed.  
  
Anyway, I didn’t really have the energy to hold a grudge right now.  
  
I couldn’t quite manage an actual smile, let alone find the right words to tell him it was okay without fucking it all up. So, instead, I opened one of the cupboards and pulled out a small, unopened blister pack of honey.  
  
“You might want this for your tea,” I said, setting it down in front of him. “I had it left over from breakfast this morning, and I know we’re out down here, so…”  
  
(My toast with honey experiment had proved to be a resounding success. That is to say, it was delicious. Well, that wasn’t true in the strictest sense, of course. I mean, I’d always found it a tiny little bit too sweet before. If I really damped down my power as far as I could, it still kind of was. If I didn’t, though; if I let my power map out the structure of the honey in its smallest detail as I ate, it tasted fucking amazing.)  
  
(I’d honestly never realised honey was so interesting. Monosaccharides, disaccharides, oligosaccharides, proteins, amino acids, vitamins, minerals, flavonoids and other antioxidants, organic acids… And I didn’t think I’d ever even heard of hydroxymethylfurfural before. I mean, I hadn’t known that was what it was called at the time, but I looked it up afterwards. And the crystalline superstructure of the sugars felt pleasingly… harmonious… to my senses.)  
  
(In short: yet more confirmation that my sense of taste had been altered by my power. That wasn’t, however, necessarily a bad thing.)  
  
“You noticed,” Dean said, sounding surprised and a little pleased.  
  
“I’m observant,” I said dryly.  
  
He looked at me for a moment. “Thank you.”  
  
I concentrated on putting the drinks on a tray.  
  
“You’re welcome,” I said shortly, feeling kind of awkward. “Anyway,” I continued, in a stronger voice. “We’d better get a move on. We don’t want Victoria and Amy to think we’ve forgotten about them.”  
  
“No,” he said, smiling. “We certainly wouldn’t want that.”  
  
Not that I could have forgotten Victoria if I’d tried.  
  
(Or that hug.)  
  
I thought back again to that moment when I’d seen her standing there in that doorway, and even knowing that it was her power, that it wasn’t real, it still made me catch my breath.  
  
Damn.  
  
That aura of hers really was something else.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

How the fuck was this now my life?  
  
Barely a couple of hours ago, I’d been sitting in front of a computer, trying to force myself to focus on my work. Now, I was trying to avoid looking at myself in a changing cubicle’s full-length mirror as I struggled to do up the ridiculously tiny buttons on a stupidly flimsy blouse that cost more than I usually spent on clothes in a month and almost certainly wasn’t even going to fit me anyway.  
  
Fuck, I bet I looked ridiculous. Victoria was probably going to take one look at me and laugh herself sick.  
  
Well, no. I didn’t really think she’d do that. She seemed far too nice to actually make fun of me right to my face, no matter how justified it was. But I certainly felt pretty damn ridiculous. I mean, fuck, didn’t rich girls actually have functional biceps or something? Surely the sleeves weren’t supposed to be this snug. And did the designers have something against allowing people a full range of motion? I swear this thing was like a fucking straightjacket.  
  
And, naturally, the tightest part of the sleeves happened to fit squarely over the bruises from where Lance had grabbed me by the arms and shoved me against the wall.  
  
(Right before I’d… done what I’d done to him.)  
  
Although they, at least, were healing like they were supposed to.  
  
Suddenly worried, I turned to check the dressing on my back but, much to my relief, it was still clean and dry. Just as well. No one wanted me bleeding all over these fancy clothes, least of all me. Although, it had been a good couple of days since any of the welts had last… leaked… so I was cautiously optimistic that my back was actually starting to heal properly at long last.  
  
Fucking finally.  
  
(Anyway, if I was honest, it was my own damn fault that I’d had to patch myself up again on Wednesday night. Well, technically Thursday morning. Technically. Maybe in hindsight, hitting the gym when I’d been practically asleep on my feet hadn’t exactly been my best decision ever. I just… hadn’t wanted to go back to bed quite yet; had wanted to give the latest nightmare a chance to fade from the surface of my mind before letting sleep claim me once again.)  
  
(Tripping and falling on a treadmill was never fun, even if the safety features — and my power — meant it hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. I’d actually very briefly considered going to the infirmary, but it had turned out not to be necessary. Anyway, I hadn’t technically damaged myself further. I’d just… aggravated a couple of pre-existing injuries a little. So I hadn’t actually disobeyed Director Piggot’s order. Technically.)  
  
(Besides, what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.)  
  
I sighed, pulling the hem of the blouse back down and reluctantly continuing to do up the damn fiddly buttons of the flimsy, ill-fitting, expensive garment that I’d already known I wasn’t going to buy when Victoria had held the stupid thing up against me and told me that the colour would really set off my complexion.  
  
I’d only agreed to try it on in the first place out of politeness.  
  
(And because she’d looked at me so hopefully, and she’d sounded so enthusiastic and she’d been so positive about thinking it would suit me that I guessed I’d just let myself get swept along.)  
  
The colour was lovely, I had to admit: a deep, rich green that made be think of endless, rolling grasslands. And, okay, the material was actually beautifully soft against my skin (and felt kind of nice to my power, too). But the fit…  
  
I sighed.  
  
How the hell had I even got here anyway?  
  
No, I knew exactly how I’d got here. And why.  
  
Victoria Dallon.  
  
Victoria had taken one look around my room and, in a tone of absolute horror, proclaimed: ‘No one should be expected to live like this!’ The next thing I knew, I was taking off my mask and agreeing to go out shopping with her.  
  
Plus Amy and Dean, of course, but this was basically Victoria’s show.  
  
It was honestly kind of ludicrous. I was out shopping with Glory Girl, Panacea and Gallant. Me, of all people. It was fucking surreal.  
  
And yet, here I was.  
  
I had briefly considered trying to demur — I did have work to do after all — but then I thought about it, and it wasn’t actually that bad an idea. I did seriously need to get some new clothes, some furniture, and a few other odds and ends. I’d been thinking about going out shopping, but I hadn’t really had the chance yet. So, since I had to go sometime, it might as well be today. And it might as well be with them.  
  
Anyway, there was one fairly major advantage of going shopping with two publicly known capes, one of whom was Glory Girl. If Dad hadn’t gone underground, if he was somehow keeping tabs on me, it was pretty unlikely that he’d try to grab me with her there.  
  
(I hoped.)  
  
But enough about that. I’d finally finished doing up those stupid buttons. I supposed I should tell Victoria I was ready. Except… I wasn’t sure I wanted to. She really had seemed so convinced that this would work on me. I… kind of didn’t want to disappoint her. And I was pretty damn sure she was going to be disappointed.  
  
“How’s it going in there, Astrid?” Victoria’s voice came from just the other side of the curtain, making me start a little. “Are you decent?”  
  
I took a breath.  
  
“Yes, but I don’t think it-“  
  
Before I could finish the sentence, the curtain was abruptly swept back to reveal…  
  
Wow.  
  
“You look really good,” I blurted out, and then flushed crimson. “I mean, that outfit looks amazing on you. You should definitely get it. Um, if you want to, that is.”  
  
Jesus fucking Christ! Stop talking, idiot! Just… stop.  
  
“Thanks, Astrid,” Victoria said, politely ignoring my verbal face-plant and gracing me with a smile. “I am pretty happy with it. Now, let’s get a good look at you.”  
  
“I don’t-“  
  
Once more, I didn’t get to finish my sentence as she took me by the hand and pulled me out of the cubicle, into the main part of the changing room. Caught by surprise — both at the cavalier physical contact, and at the fact that, for some reason, I hadn’t tried to pull away, or smack her — I let her lead me towards the large mirror at the far end.  
  
Letting go of me, she took a step back and studied me thoughtfully before circling around me, presumably to check how it fit at the back.  
  
“Hmm…” she murmured.  
  
“I don’t think it fits,” I said, like she couldn’t see that perfectly well for herself.  
  
“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. “But let me just…”  
  
Trailing off, she reached out and did… something… to the collar. I honestly wasn’t entirely sure, having frozen in place the moment she reached out towards me. My breath quickened and my pulse raced, but that was hardly a surprise. Victoria’s touch was light and gentle as she smoothed the fabric of the blouse over my shoulders, tugged at the hem, twisted a sleeve around just a little, but my stomach lurched and I couldn’t forget the strength she so carefully kept under control. I was all too aware of how little I could do against her if she actually decided to let it loose.  
  
(I was painfully familiar with what a brute could do if they got their hands on you.)  
  
Frankly, I was shocked I hadn’t already lashed out, or tried to pull away, or done something. Anything other just stand there, passive, as she carefully adjusted the blouse. Well, maybe passive was the wrong word. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t tense, after all; wasn’t as if my whole body didn’t feel alive with nervous energy. Somehow, though, I managed to keep any precipitous responses in check.  
  
Maybe that meant I was getting better at controlling my instincts.  
  
In any case, after what was either a lifetime, or mere moments, she was done.  
  
“That’s better,” she said, sounding thoughtful. “I don’t think the cut is quite right for you, but… Here, see for yourself.”  
  
I made myself look in the mirror. The blouse looked… a little better than I’d thought it would, I guessed, but that really wasn’t saying much. And it still didn’t…  
  
(Somewhat incongruously, I found myself thinking back to primary school.)  
  
(There were two particular doll lines that had been popular with girls in my classes back then. Not that I’d ever really played with dolls myself, but kids brought them into school sometimes, so I’d picked up on some stuff through observation.)  
  
(One of the doll lines was called Simone and the other was called Mandy. The two brands were kind of differently built. Simone was a little slimmer, a little better proportioned than Mandy. She was also rather more expensive. I guessed that made Mandy a cheap knock-off.)  
  
(Anyway, one of the things the kids did with their dolls was play dress-up. Naturally, they often swapped the clothes around. One of the things that even I, the inveterate outsider, had picked up on was that, while Mandy’s clothes would look more or less okay on Simone, the reverse wasn’t exactly true. You could get them on, more or less, but you wouldn’t exactly say they fit. They tended to be tight in all the wrong places.)  
  
(So, in this rather overwrought metaphor, I guessed I was Mandy, trying to fit into Simone’s clothes.)  
  
(Victoria, of course, was definitely a Simone.)  
  
“What do you think?” Victoria prompted, gently, startling me out of my little private pity party.  
  
I tried to think of something to say.  
  
“I really like the colour,” I settled on, figuring that it would be better to start on a positive note. “I’m… not sure about the fit, though.” Without meaning to, I grimaced and added: “I don’t think the designer had my shoulders in mind. And I think the sleeves might be cutting off circulation in my arms.” I made myself stop and take a breath before I said something unfortunate. “I’m sorry,” I said, after a moment. “I know you thought this could work.”  
  
Victoria shrugged and smiled. “That’s fashion for you. Sometimes a hunch pays off, and sometimes it doesn’t. I was absolutely spot on about the colour, though. And, look on the bright side: now you have an excuse to try on more things!” She said that like this was actually supposed to be fun. “Right!” she said, decisively. “Why don’t you try on that cute little red dress next?”  
  
I should have said that I wasn’t really looking for dresses, especially at the kinds of prices this place charged. I should have said that this wasn’t really my kind of store; that I wasn’t exactly used to hanging around in designer boutiques. But what I actually ended up doing was nodding and trotting obediently back to the cubicle.  
  
Fuck.  
  
It really was hard to say no to her.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The next time I stepped out of the changing cubicle, Victoria was wearing a completely different (but nevertheless still amazing) outfit — how the hell did she get changed so quickly and yet still look so immaculate? — and coaxing a somewhat reluctant-seeming Amy to look at herself in the mirror. Amy glanced up at herself, frowned, and looked down again, hunching her shoulders.  
  
“Okay, I looked,” she said. “And I was right: it’s just not me.”  
  
“Oh Ames,” Victoria pouted, huffing out a sigh. “At least give it a try. And stand up straight.” Amy rolled her eyes, but a slight smile quirked her lips as she obeyed her sister’s command. (It really was a command, too: I sure as shit knew an order when I heard one. Fuck, even though it wasn’t directed at me — I wasn’t sure the two of them had even seen me, hovering uncertainly in front of my cubicle — it made me want to straighten my own, already-straight spine.) “Shoulders back,” Victoria continued, physically adjusting Amy’s posture when the other girl didn’t move fast enough to suit her. “And what have I told you about hiding behind your hair?” Not giving Amy a chance to respond, she started combing it back with deft, expert motions of her fingers, tucking it behind Amy’s ears.  
  
“I wasn’t hiding,” Amy protested, bearing her sister’s fussing with surprisingly good grace. “My hair just does what it wants, you know that.”  
  
“Well, maybe it wouldn’t if you actually used some of those fancy conditioners and hair serums I keep giving you.”  
  
“Not all of us have the time to faff with things like serums and conditioning treatments,” Amy said. She grinned. “Especially when certain other people tend to hog the shower.”  
  
“I do not hog the shower!” Victoria said indignantly, and I couldn’t help feeling uneasily like I was intruding on a private family moment. Maybe that was why Amy had pretty much ignored me on the drive from the PRT building to the mall.  
  
(The two of us had shared the back seat of Dean’s car. Dean had been driving, of course, and Victoria had claimed the passenger seat. The two of them had spent most of the journey either flirting outrageously or bickering with each other. Sometimes both at once. It was… weird, seeing this side of Dean. Weird and ever-so-slightly embarrassing; especially when they were in a flirty phase. To distract myself from their antics — and to give my poor, overheated cheeks a chance to cool down, I’d thought about trying to make conversation with Amy, but she’d been staring resolutely out of the window. I’d decided against bothering her and merely tried to follow her example, staring fixedly out of my own window.)  
  
(It didn’t help all that much.)  
  
The Dallon sisters were obviously close, and I had the feeling that clothes shopping was one of the things they did together. I wouldn’t blame Amy for being a little put out by her sister inviting some random stranger along on what was supposed to be something for just the two of them. Well, and Dean, technically, but given we seemed to be spending much of our time in changing rooms while he waited patiently outside for us, I wasn’t sure he really counted.  
  
“You totally hog the shower,” Amy said firmly, her grin broadening when Victoria glowered at her.  
  
“Slanderous statements aside,” she said firmly. “Take a look now.” Without so much as a by your leave, she took hold of Amy’s chin and turned her face towards the mirror. “There: that’s much better. Don’t you agree?”  
  
It… actually was kind of amazing how much difference little things like posture had made. Not to mention attitude. Amy just seemed a lot more comfortable and happy. She had a nice smile, I noticed. Nothing like as brilliant as Victoria’s of course, but it gave her a sense of lively animation I would never have suspected from the stony-faced unreadability sprinkled with occasional flashes of sour disapproval that was all I’d seen from her so far.  
  
She drew a breath as if to speak, but then Victoria happened to glance up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. She smiled at me, and I barely even remembered what Amy looked like, let alone how their smiles compared.  
  
(There was no comparison. Victoria was one of a kind.)  
  
“What do you think, Astrid?”  
  
Put on the spot like that, my first instinct was to freeze. I made myself shake it off, though, stepping towards the two of them, tearing my gaze away from Victoria with an effort so I could study Amy.  
  
“That outfit suits you,” I told her, meaning it. It certainly did more for her than the shapeless cardigan she’d been swaddled in previously. Not that clearing that bar would have been a particular challenge.  
  
“Thanks,” she muttered, her face back to inscrutability.  
  
“Told you,” Victoria said smugly, nudging her sister fondly. “I have excellent taste.” She gave Amy a quick hug, and then turned her full attention to me. “Now, let’s take a look at you.”  
  
I was very rapidly starting to realise that when Victoria said things like that, what she really meant was ‘poke and prod.’ Apparently, she was kind of a tactile person and, for her, looking invariably involved a certain amount of touching. But I bore the examination with what I thought was reasonably good grace, doing my level best not to think about the fact that the elegant, long-fingered hands that were right now resettling the stupid fucking dress over my hips could just as easily snap my bones like matchsticks.  
  
(I hoped she didn’t notice the way my breath caught when she drew near. The last thing I wanted was for her to realise just how jumpy I was right now.)  
  
Victoria, stepped back, looked me up and down, and frowned. I tried not to wilt at her obvious disappointment. Unwillingly, I found my gaze drawn to the mirror before me, where I reluctantly studied my own reflection, trying to see myself as Victoria saw me.  
  
I instantly wished I hadn’t.  
  
I’d never really cared much about my appearance. At least not beyond making sure that there wasn’t anything about it that would draw undue attention; like too many visible bruises. (Well, that was pretty much a lost fucking cause right now, wasn’t it? Not that there was any real point in worrying about that at the moment.) But, in general… How I looked wasn’t something I ever really thought about.  
  
Sometimes kids at school had said things, of course, especially in recent years. Some of them had made it pretty fucking clear that I didn’t exactly have the most… typically feminine of builds. Like I gave a flying fuck about that. I’d take ‘strong’ and ‘being able to defend myself’ over ‘dainty’ and ’feminine’ any fucking day of the week, thank you very much. So it didn’t bother me when some troglodyte guy or chit of a girl seemed to take personal offence that I didn’t match up to their ideal of female beauty.  
  
(Only when they took it further, and suggested that my appearance meant I might be… aberrant… in other ways.)  
  
(Fuck, if Dad ever got wind of anything like that; if he even thought that it might be true…)  
  
(I mean, it wasn’t; of course it wasn’t. But you couldn’t let those kind of rumours go unanswered. You just couldn’t. You never knew who might be paying attention; who might read things into you ignoring such accusations. Who might take it as a sign that maybe there was some fire beneath that smoke after all.)  
  
(That maybe they needed to do something about it.)  
  
(That maybe they needed to fix you.)  
  
(But it was alright. I wasn’t… like that. And I always stood up for myself if someone suggested I was, so anyone who might try to intervene would know that they didn’t have to.)  
  
(That I didn’t need to be fixed.)  
  
(That I wasn’t broken in that way.)  
  
So I didn’t care that I didn’t look like one of those soft, weak, so-called normal girls. The ones who didn’t work their asses off every single day improving their strength, fitness and ability to fight.  
  
At least, I didn’t usually.  
  
Now, though, seeing my reflection standing awkwardly before me… The dress stretched tight across my shoulders and bunched around my chest, looking completely and utterly ridiculous on my broad frame. The waist didn’t sit right at all, despite Victoria’s ministrations, and the skirt length was completely wrong for my considerable height. My ragged hair stuck out in all directions, giving me a wild, half-feral air, and my bruise-mottled skin added a whole extra layer of pathetic grotesquerie.  
  
For the first time, I looked at myself in the mirror and I felt… embarrassed.  
  
(Ashamed.)  
  
Of course, the fact that I was standing next to Victoria fucking Dallon really didn’t help. She somehow managed to combine a lithe athleticism with having curves in all the right places; strength and beauty wrapped up together in one flawless package. Her skin was probably whole and unscarred beneath the the expensive designer outfit she wore with careless, confident ease. (Even if she wasn’t invulnerable, I bet someone like her hardly ever had to be disciplined at all. Not like me.) Hell, even her hair was fucking perfect.  
  
Fuck, it was like looking at Fay Wray and King Kong.  
  
Or beauty and the fucking beast.  
  
No prizes for guessing which one was which.  
  
If she were anyone else, I might have hated her a little right now, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t her fault that she was a goddess in human form while I… wasn’t. That she could wear these fucking clothes and I couldn’t. It was just one of those things.  
  
Anyway, I was being ridiculous.  
  
What the fuck did it matter what I looked like as long as I could fight? My body had to be strong, it had to be functional, it had to do what I needed it to do. What it didn’t have to be was fucking pretty.  
  
(Except… Except, more and more lately, it seemed like my body kept failing at the first three of those, and that was worrying. Deeply worrying. I needed to be stronger. I needed to be better.)  
  
(I guessed that just meant I’d have to work harder.)  
  
“No,” Victoria sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t think there’s any saving that one.” She shook her head, and met my eyes, giving me a rueful smile. “I don’t seem to be doing too well with you so far, do I?”  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered, flushing miserably. “I don’t think I’m really part of this designer’s target demographic.”  
  
“Perhaps not,” Victoria sighed. Much to my surprise, though, she actually wagged her fucking finger at me. (More surprisingly, the incredibly patronising gesture didn’t actually make me want to break the offending digit.) “But that’s their problem, not yours,” she added, firmly. “Never feel bad just because you don’t happen match one particular designer’s very specific ideal. And don’t ever fucking apologise for it.”  
  
I didn’t know why I was so surprised to hear her swear but, weirdly, it kind of made her feel a little more… relatable, somehow. Yes, she might be celebrity cape, a self-proclaimed hero and someone who was comfortable throwing around sums of money that made my eyes pop. But she still said fuck. And she was still a teenage girl, just like me.  
  
Well, maybe not just like me, but still…  
  
In any event, I swallowed back the apology that hovered just on the tip of my tongue. It was utterly ridiculous for me to be so… so… uncertain of myself. Just because this was Glory Girl; just because she could take me apart without so much as mussing her hair if she wanted to… (Just because I kind of didn’t want to disappoint her.) That didn’t mean I was going to act like such a fucking drip.  
  
So I pulled myself together, stood up straight and gave her what I hoped was at least a semi-credible attempt at an amused grin.  
  
“You’re right,” I said dryly. “Fuck this designer. There are other clothing lines.”  
  
Victoria laughed, and my smile suddenly felt a whole fuck of a lot more natural. “That’s exactly the right attitude,” she said. She patted me on the shoulder and turned to look at Amy. “See? What have I been telling you? Astrid’s got the right idea.”  
  
Amy just rolled her eyes.  
  
Victoria abruptly turned me to face her, looking me up and down with an intense, thoughtful expression on her face.  
  
“Okay,” she said, firmly. “Let’s start at the beginning. Take that thing off and let me have a look at you.”  
  
“What?” I totally didn’t yelp, flushing all the way to my hairline. Was she really telling me to…?  
  
“I want to get a clear idea of your build and skin tone,” she said matter-of-factly. “And it’s just so much easier to do that without clothes getting in the way. So take off the dress.”  
  
“Um,” I said, my mind throwing a full blown exception as I tried uselessly to get my thoughts in gear.  
  
“Don’t worry,” she told me, a hint of impatience creeping into her tone. “We’re all girls together, here. There’s absolutely no reason at all to be shy. Here, let me help you…”  
  
“No!” I said swiftly, backing up a step. “I mean, no thank you. That’s okay. I don’t need a hand.”  
  
Shit, that was the last thing I needed right now. I was uncomfortable enough as it was with her proximity, not to mention her propensity for touching. I couldn’t even think about how bad it would be if she actually tried to undress me. My heart was practically in my mouth right now. If she actually tried… I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep my instincts in check any longer, and I might end up doing something… unfortunate.  
  
Most likely, unfortunate for me.  
  
“The thing Victoria doesn’t tend to realise,” Amy observed dryly, and I started a little at the sound of her voice. I’d honestly kind of forgotten that she was there. “Is that not all of us are as comfortable in our own skin as she is in hers.”  
  
I shared a look with Amy, oddly warmed at finding support from such an unexpected quarter.  
  
I wasn’t normally shy, not in the slightest, but this whole situation just made me feel like I was way out of my comfort zone. Clothes shopping wasn’t one of my favourite activities at the best of times, and I certainly wasn’t used to being in fancy, expensive stores like this one. Not to mention hanging around with celebrity capes. And I sure as shit wasn’t used to people being as… as… tactile with me as Victoria seemed to be.  
  
All in all, I felt pretty fucking ill at ease right now.  
  
I almost, almost told Victoria that, actually, Amy was right and I really wasn’t comfortable with this.  
  
Except…  
  
(Wouldn’t that be backing down?)  
  
(Wouldn’t that be letting my unease control me?)  
  
(Wouldn’t that be… weakness?)  
  
Except, whatever else I might be, I absolutely refused to be a fucking coward.  
  
So I took a deep breath, ignored the butterflies in my stomach and gave Amy a tight grin.  
  
“That’s okay,” I said, as casually as I could manage. “I don’t mind. It just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”  
  
Anyway, I was glad to get out of that stupid fucking dress.  
  
“See,” Victoria told Amy. “You’re so dramatic. It’s not nearly as big a deal as you seem to think it is.” Amy just rolled her eyes and said nothing.  
  
I tried my best not to feel self-conscious under Victoria’s scrutiny. I… wasn’t entirely successful. It wasn’t just my newfound sense of fucking vanity this time, though, it was…  
  
Fuck.  
  
I was used to thinking of my bruises and scars as just… indicators. No more, no less. A way of measuring of how damaged I was; how careful I had to be with my body to ensure that it stayed functional. A visible record of what I’d endured. Of how much I could endure, if I had to. A reminder of failures or of punishments. Motivation to do better in future.  
  
But the way people had been looking at me this week… Captain Cavendish, Ms Grant, Mr Reid, Carlos, Chris, Dennis, miscellaneous random people I’d encountered in the PRT building, various passersby as we’d wandered through the mall…  
  
It was starting to make me feel really fucking self-conscious.  
  
It was starting to make me feel… weird.  
  
I mean, it was just a few bruises, right? I mean, maybe between hell week, Dad and Shadow Stalker, maybe I was a little more battered than usual, but still…  
  
It wasn’t that bad…  
  
Was it?  
  
Well, no. No, it wasn’t that bad, not really. It was just… It was surface damage, that was all.  
  
(Even if it had been two weeks already, and my back didn’t seem to be healing all that well. Even if I thought maybe my wrist might have been getting worse, not better. Even if I was starting to think that maybe, possibly, perhaps I might have been hurt a little worse than I’d initially thought.)  
  
But people just kept looking at me like they thought… Like I was… Like they accepted my cover story without question. Like they thought that maybe I’d been… I’d been right to run just on the basis of what they saw. Without even knowing a single goddamn thing about the rest of it.  
  
And I knew that they were outsiders, and that Dad held Lance and me to higher standards than most. But, for the first time, I found myself… doubting, a little. Not the… the reasons, but… I mean, I may not have agreed with his worldview, or with a lot of his values, but I didn’t doubt that he was trying to make me strong. To make both of us strong.  
  
(‘The vast majority of the people out there are weak. They don’t have the first fucking clue what it’s like to push yourself to your limits and beyond. But you’re not like them, my girl. You’re special, and don’t you ever fucking forget it. But that doesn’t mean you get to take it easy. Just the opposite. It means you have to try even harder to reach your full potential, no matter how much it hurts. But I know you’re not afraid of a little pain, Astrid. I know you’re strong. I know you can take it. And I know you’re going to make your old man proud.’)  
  
He was… He was my father. And he was my commanding officer. Of course he would do whatever it took to… to toughen me up. And of course he had the right to discipline me when I fucked up. It was… There should be consequences for failure. I wasn’t doubting that.  
  
And yet, even so, I wondered if… I mean, maybe…  
  
Did he really have to go that far?  
  
It was an uncomfortable thought, and it was probably a sign of weakness but, frustratingly, I just couldn’t shake it.  
  
And it made me feel…  
  
It was probably just the tiredness, and the fact that I was still reeling from so much upheaval in so short a time, but when I looked at myself, I didn’t see a survivor.  
  
I just saw someone who’d been… damaged.  
  
And although I knew — I **knew** — I wasn’t what they thought I was, that they didn’t know the first fucking thing about my life, for the first time I could remember, I looked at myself in the mirror and I saw what they saw.  
  
Someone who looked like a fucking victim.  
  
Reluctantly, I forced myself to look at Victoria, already anticipating the look of pity in her eyes. Except it wasn’t there. She just looked… thoughtful. Like she wasn’t focusing on the bruises at all. Like she really was just thinking about what colours and styles of clothing might actually suit me.  
  
Huh.  
  
That was… unexpected.  
  
Unexpected, but definitely not unwelcome.  
  
Shit, in that moment I thought I could have actually hugged her.  
  
If I’d been the kind of person who actually hugged anyone.  
  
And… if I didn’t think there was a better than even chance I’d end up with broken bones if I startled her and she lashed out the way I would have done.  
  
(Not that I actually had done with her so far, but that was just because I’d been focusing really hard on my control. Somehow, though, I really didn’t want to test hers.)  
  
Recalling with a start that there was actually another person in the room with us, I glanced over in Amy’s direction to find her giving me the weirdest fucking look. Also not pity, thank fuck, or shock, or anything like that. Although, I guessed, as a healer, she undoubtedly saw much, much worse than a few bruises on a regular basis. Rather, it was almost… anticipatory. Like she was expecting something to happen.  
  
I had no fucking clue what that might be.  
  
Maybe I was just misreading her.  
  
Well, whatever the fuck was going through her mind right now, at least it wasn’t more fucking pity.  
  
Perhaps this outing had been a good idea after all.  
  
As soon as the thought formed, Victoria nodded her head like she’d just come to a decision, fixing me with what could only be described as a determined look. I had a sudden, unexplained feeling of impending doom.  
  
“Right,” she said, briskly. “I have a few ideas for looks we can try out.” She clapped her hands suddenly, grinning at me with what looked like sheer, unbridled glee. “It’s going to be awesome!” Before I could so much as draw breath to respond to that — assuming I had even the first fucking clue what to say — she was back to determined again. “But, first things first,” she said sternly. Once more not giving me even the slightest chance to respond, she reached out and ran her fingers through the ragged mess of my hair. “We’re going to do what we really should have done the moment we set foot in this mall.”  
  
I… froze, completely and utterly unable to move even if I’d wanted to, paralysed by a chaotic mix of feelings I couldn’t even begin to identify. It was… Dad stroked my hair, when he was pleased with me. But Victoria didn’t sound pleased. Although she didn’t sound angry, either; just… firm. She was a brute like him; she could hurt me so fucking badly if she wanted to. Just like he did. So… maybe this was fear? But fear didn’t usually make me freeze, it made me lash out, and here I was, just… just… standing here like a fool. And this was nothing like when Dad stroked my hair, but it also wasn’t like other times that someone had touched me without permission. One of those made me relax, and the other made me violent as fuck, and this fucking tense paralysis was nothing at all like either of those, and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on.  
  
But… But I needed to pull myself together, and I needed to do it now.  
  
“Huh?” I said stupidly. Frankly, though, I was impressed I’d managed even that much with my current level of discombobulation.  
  
“Stop manhandling the poor girl, Victoria.” Amy sounded kind of… irritated. “Not everyone’s comfortable being as touchy-feely as you are.”  
  
“I’m not manhandling anyone,” Victoria sniffed, rolling her eyes. “You’re being dramatic again, Ames.” But she released me anyway, and suddenly I could breathe again.  
  
Amy muttered something I couldn’t quite catch, but I thought I might have made out the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’.  
  
I made another effort to pull myself together.  
  
“Anyway,” Victoria said firmly, once more pinning me in place with that determined stare. “Like I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, there’s something that absolutely must be done before we go any further.” She drew herself up to her full height, pointing at me dramatically. (Okay, if Amy had said what I thought she’d said, maybe she might have had a point about her sister.) “You are going to have a haircut.”  
  
I blinked at her for a few moments. Whatever I might have been expecting, that had not been it. And there were a thousand and one reasons why that was a really bad idea right about now, chief among them being that the idea of letting some stranger get near me with scissors made me want to smack someone. There was a reason why Dad usually cut my hair, and it wasn’t just so he could make absolutely certain I didn’t get it cut too short.  
  
(I had actually been to the hairdressers before. Once. About three years ago. It was… not my most favourite memory in the whole world, but a large part of that was down to what happened afterwards. Because the outing had been the occasion of one of my more blatant acts of defiance. I’d been pissed off at Dad, and so I’d decided to go and get my hair cut short. I’d actually been meaning to have the lot of it shaved off, but, well, at the last minute I’d kind of chickened out of going that far. Still, by the time the hairdresser was done, it barely came down to my chin.)  
  
(Dad had reacted about as well as you’d expect.)  
  
It would have been sensible to tell Victoria I’d get my hair cut another time. It would have been. What I actually found myself saying, however, was:  
  
“Sure.”  
  
Fuck.  
  
Damn that fucking aura. It made it really goddamn hard to say no to her. I couldn’t exactly refuse now, though. Oh well. I guessed I was getting a haircut.  
  
I just hoped it didn’t end in disaster.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“There!” Victoria said brightly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? And your hair looks much better now.”  
  
I had to concede the second point. As for the first, though…  
  
Yes. Yes, it fucking was that bad. It was just a damn good thing that Victoria and Dean between them had been able to distract me enough that I’d managed to keep both my fight and my flight instincts in check. Even if Victoria hadn’t appreciated him telling me the story of how she’d once ended up face-planting into wet cement. She hadn’t seemed to appreciate me laughing at it, either.  
  
(I hadn’t been able to stop myself from tensing when she’d glowered at me. Not that I’d really thought she was going to do anything right then and there, of course, but maybe later, if she got me on my own… Shit, if she really wanted to fuck me up and not leave any evidence, all she had to do was ask Amy to heal the damage afterwards. They were family, after all: of course they’d back each other up. And if it came down to my word against theirs, who the fuck would believe some nobody over Glory Girl and Panacea? Not that I was a snitch, but…)  
  
(Anyway, what could I do against someone who was in-fucking-vulnerable? Except… She still needed to breathe, didn’t she? Would her power protect her against inhaling metal dust? Or… Or other ways of fucking up her breathing? And she had eyes. People tended to flinch if you went for their eyes, even if they were invulnerable. Plus, there was an upper limit to her strength, so I probably could immobilise her with enough metal if I was fast enough. There probably was something I could do. But only if she didn’t get her hands on me.)  
  
(And… I probably shouldn’t be thinking about ways to take out my team mate’s girlfriend.)  
  
Maybe it hadn’t exactly been wise to aggravate someone who could squash me like a bug, but, well. The story had been pretty fucking hilarious. Anyway, she’d seemed more pissed off at Dean than me.  
  
(I hoped she didn’t hurt him.)  
  
The best thing was that, rather than the impact site simply being smoothed out afterwards, it had been allowed to set like that. The whole thing had then been dug up and auctioned off for charity. So someone, somewhere actually owned a concrete slab with an imprint of Glory Girl’s face in it.  
  
I guessed people really would buy anything.  
  
But I was drifting again.  
  
Hellfire and damnation!  
  
That had been happening more and more as the week went on and I got tireder and tireder. I really needed a good night’s sleep. I needed it so fucking badly. But the only way that was going to happen would be if the nightmares let up, and they hadn’t shown any sign of doing that so far.  
  
“Astrid?” Victoria said, sounding concerned. Fuck. I probably should have scrounged up some sort of response to her statement, shouldn’t I? “Are you okay?” she asked.  
  
“I’m fine,” I said, making myself smile. “Just a little distracted I guess. Sorry.” I took a breath. “My hair does look better, though, thank you. And, um, thank you for paying for it. Although you didn’t have to do that.”  
  
But, given the prices the place was charging, it wasn’t like I could really have afforded it. Jesus fucking Christ: how the hell did they justify charging that much just for a haircut? I mean, the hairdresser had done a pretty good job, but part of me balked at the thought of paying that amount of money for something so ephemeral.  
  
“I know I didn’t have to,” Victoria said, beaming. “But it seemed only fair, given I was the one who dragged you here. And it’s not like I can’t afford it.” Her grin turned lopsided. “Anyway, I’m viewing it as paying for the privilege of being proved right. Because, you have to admit, I was totally right about that pixie cut suiting you.”  
  
Even though her aura-enhanced smile still made me reel a little inside, I mustered up the willpower to roll my eyes at her.  
  
(Shit. I was rolling my eyes at Victoria fucking Dallon. How the actual fuck was this my life now?)  
  
“You were, in fact, absolutely right,” I said in as deadpan a voice as I could manage. “Clearly I never should have doubted you.”  
  
(Even if I had suffered a brief fit of panic when I’d looked in the mirror afterwards and, for a moment, I’d seen my mother staring back at me. The way my new haircut emphasised my eyes and my cheekbones; the way it curled around to frame my strong jaw… But then I blinked, and the moment passed.)  
  
(I mean, there was still a notable resemblance, but in all the pictures of her I’d seen, my mother had had a… presence, for want of a better word. She’d radiated a kind of confidence and a sense of being at ease in her own skin that I, on my very best of days, could only dream of. It made me feel awkward and gawky in comparison. I wondered if it that kind of self-assurance was something that would come with age and experience. I wondered if I’d look more like her when I got older.)  
  
(I wasn’t entirely sure what I thought about that.)  
  
(It was fairly safe to say that my feelings about my mother were… complicated.)  
  
Victoria laughed delightedly. “Oh, I think you and I are going to get along wonderfully, Astrid.” She suddenly turned on her heel and bounded over to throw her arms enthusiastically around Dean. The impact made him almost fumble the bags containing the Dallon sisters’ new outfits, but somehow he managed to keep hold of them. (I wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up playing pack mule when Victoria was the one with super-strength, but I wasn’t going to question it.) “See, Dean,” she murmured. “Some people don’t have any problems admitting when I’m right. Which is always, by the way. Maybe you should take notes.”  
  
“Okay, I admit you were right,” he said easily. “At least about this.” He grinned suddenly, and there was an air of challenge in his eyes as he went on: “But you were wrong about the parking space. Which means you’re also wrong about being right all the time.” Victoria’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned in to murmur something in his ear. Dean, perhaps unwisely, just laughed in response. “Promises, promises,” he murmured back.  
  
And I… really did not need to hear that. Nor did I need to see my team mate making out with his girlfriend in the middle of a crowded mall. My face burning, I spun on my heel and quickly hurried off to join Amy, who’d opted to wait outside the hairdresser’s. She was leaning on the railing, scowling down at the shoppers on the floor below. I couldn’t really blame her. I mean, Victoria was her sister. It must have been about a thousand times more embarrassing for her than it was for me. And I found it embarrassing enough.  
  
Fuck, I would really have expected a guy whose cape name was Gallant to have a little bit more of a problem engaging in public displays of affection. Today, though, had pretty definitely proved that he didn’t have any issues with it at all. I guessed he was dating the most beautiful girl in the world, though. That presumably went some way to helping him overcome any inhibitions in that regard.  
  
And… I really, really needed to think about something else before my cheeks actually caught fire.  
  
“So,” I started, and then hesitated when Amy turned to me with a look that could best be described as ‘wary.’ I made myself smile, even though this suddenly felt pretty fucking awkward. “Do you and Victoria go clothes shopping often?”  
  
She seemed surprised, briefly, but I had no fucking clue why. It wasn’t that weird a question. At least, I didn’t think it was. Damn. Now I was second-guessing myself. In any case, she apparently shook off whatever it was, nodding slowly.  
  
“Victoria loves shopping,” she said shortly. I waited a moment, but that was apparently all she was getting.  
  
“Do you enjoy it?” I asked.  
  
She shrugged. “Mostly.” Was that hostility in her eyes, or was I just failing at basic social skills again? Should I ask? Before I could figure out what, if anything, to say to that, she glanced over my shoulder and rolled her eyes. (She seemed to do that a lot.) “Fucking finally,” she sighed, and I was more shocked to hear her swear than I had been to hear Victoria do it. Raising her voice a little, she said: “Do you two need a little more alone time, or can we finally get going?”  
  
I followed the direction of her gaze. Dean, at least, had the grace to look a little shamefaced. Victoria, on the other hand, just waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t be such a prude, Ames. When I finally find you a boyfriend of your own, then you’ll understand.”  
  
“Yes, because your matchmaking attempts have worked so well before.”  
  
“Maybe if you gave them a chance,” Victoria said, scowling.  
  
They continued to bicker.  
  
This… felt like an old argument. An old argument that I in no way wanted any part of. Maybe if I just stayed very still and quiet, they wouldn’t notice me. I was a little amused to notice that Dean seemed to be using the same tactic.  
  
Unfortunately, for me, he was apparently far better at it, because Amy’s gaze flicked in my direction and I could have sworn I saw a distinctly malicious glint in her eyes as she said:  
  
“Maybe you should try to set Astrid up.”  
  
The hell?  
  
What the flying fuck did I ever do to Amy for her to throw me under the bus like that?  
  
But then Victoria turned to me with an expression of absolute delight, and I knew beyond shadow of a doubt that I was well and truly fucked.  
  
“That’s an excellent idea!” she trilled. “You’re not dating anyone at the moment, are you? Or are you?”  
  
She looked at me expectantly, and I force myself to shake off my paralysis and answer her question. Despite the fact that all I wanted to do right now was find a nice big rock to hide under and pray for the storm to pass me by.  
  
“I’m not dating anyone,” I muttered. I half wished the ground would open up and swallow me, and then I felt my power curling through the mall as if to make that happen and I frantically reeled it back in. But the brief distraction meant that I wasn’t paying as much attention to keeping my expression and body language under control as I should have been, and Victoria’s expression shifted into one of concern.  
  
“Was it a bad breakup?” she asked sympathetically, and I cringed a little inside as I shook my head.  
  
“No, it’s not anything like that,” I said, flushing. “I’ve… never actually dated.”  
  
Victoria’s mouth actually dropped open. (Somehow, she managed to make even that look beautiful. Go figure.)  
  
“What, not at all?”  
  
“Not at all,” I confirmed.  
  
“Why not?” It was less a question and more a demand. I was vaguely aware of Dean starting to say something, but I was already answering.  
  
“My dad’s kind of strict about that kind of thing,” I said, simply. And, fuck, now there was something that looked a hell of a lot like sympathy in her eyes, and sympathy was way too goddamned close to pity for my liking, and I just couldn’t bear to think of that. So, despite the unease twisting my stomach, I forced myself to keep talking. “He didn’t forbid me from dating,” I said, striving for a light, casual tone. “He just insisted on meeting any prospective boyfriends to make sure he approved of them.”  
  
“And he didn’t approve of any of your prospects?” Victoria asked, frowning.  
  
I snorted. “I never even tried. I know exactly what kind of guys would meet with his approval, and they’re sure as shit not anyone I’d ever care to date.” I scowled, feeling the old, familiar bitterness rise up inside me. Some of it leaked into my voice as I continued. “It’s alright for my brother. All Dad ever said to him on the subject of dating was not to catch anything and not to get anyone pregnant unless he was fully prepared to raise the kid.”  
  
And wasn’t that a scary thought? Lance with a kid. It sent a chill down my spine, that was for damn sure. But even that wasn’t half as scary as the thought of having kids of my own. And Dad had made it pretty fucking clear that he was expecting me to have at least a couple of them, someday. When the time was right. And with the right guy, of course; someone he deemed to be 'worthy' of me. After all, I had a fucking responsibility to uphold. Pun absolutely not intended. It was up to me to ensure the continuation of my mother’s so called glorious bloodline.  
  
(Thanks a bunch, Mom. Thank you very fucking much.)  
  
(Needless to say, what I wanted, or, rather, didn’t want, counted for precisely jack shit in all of this.)  
  
(I guessed I was just supposed to lie back and think of Brockton Bay. Or something.)  
  
And… Victoria, Dean and Amy were all staring at me like I’d suddenly grown a second head.  
  
Well, fuck. I really had not meant to say half of what I’d just blurted out. I really shouldn’t talk to people when I was this tired. Or maybe at all.  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered, wondering if it was possibly to actually die of embarrassment. Could you actually blush yourself to death? If so, it felt like I was pretty far down that road right now. “It’s… kind of a sore subject.”  
  
“No need to apologise for that,” Dean said gently. He smiled a little, and some of the tension inside me eased just a tiny bit as I remembered that I didn’t have to worry about dynasties and birthrights or any of that shit right now. (I was just plain Astrid Elizabeth Carver, perfectly ordinary Ward. Not Astrid Elizabeth… Anything else.) “Dating can be a stressful subject for anyone,” Dean continued, and his smile turned wry. “I’m sure Victoria could tell you enough horror stories about the trials and tribulations of dating me.”  
  
“You’re damn right I could,” Victoria sniffed, but the smile she gave him took any sting out of the words. I relaxed a little more, only to tense again when Victoria turned her attention back to me. “You know, you really should consider letting me use my matchmaking skills on your behalf. Amy’s pickiness aside…” She gave her sister a quick frown before gracing me with her smile once more. “I actually have a pretty good track record at setting up my friends. I’m confident I can find someone that you would care to date. And even I don’t manage to find you a Mr Right, you can certainly have some fun working your way through a few Mr Right Nows…” She winked at me, and I almost choked.  
  
“Victoria, that’s enough.” Dean sounded… serious. Victoria whirled on him like she was about to give him a piece of her mind, but whatever she saw in his face, it was enough to make her stand down.  
  
Personally, I was too busy trying not to spontaneously combust to really pay him any attention right now.  
  
Victoria turned back to me and smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to push. I just get a little carried away, sometimes. But just think about it, okay? Dating can be a lot of fun. But, in the meanwhile…” She linked arms with me and Amy, practically skipping as she pulled the two of us along in her wake. “We have shopping to do!”  
  
Shopping, I reflected somewhat dazedly, was a surprisingly fraught experience.  
  
Or maybe that was just a side-effect of hanging out with Victoria.  
  
It looked like I was going to have the opportunity to try to figure out which it was.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Somewhere during the course of the day, I started calling her Hurricane Victoria. Only in my head, of course — I wasn’t suicidal, after all — but it seemed… surprisingly apt. Like a hurricane, she made my head spin, dragging me hither and thither; an irresistible force of nature bowling over anyone and anything in her path. But… in a weirdly nice way. And, as confusing and hectic as it was, I actually found myself having… fun? Victoria’s enthusiasm was kind of infectious, and while I didn’t think I’d ever be as into the whole experience of trying on outfit after outfit as she was, her company made up for a lot.  
  
And, I had to admit, she did seem to have a better hit rate with finding clothes that actually fit me now she’d seen me in my underwear.  
  
But now I was blushing. Again.  
  
Although, maybe that was just because I was trying to figure out how to raise what could potentially be quite a delicate subject.  
  
I took a breath.  
  
“Victoria?” I said, relieved beyond measure when my voice came out sounding something close to normal.  
  
“Yes?” she replied, glancing over from where she was trying to wrestle Amy out of something she’d called ‘little better than a sack.’  
  
“All these clothes you’ve picked out are lovely, and they do seem to fit me…”  
  
“I know!” she said, looking remarkably pleased with herself.  
  
“But,” I continued, trying to stay firm, despite the way my resolve kept trying to crumble in the face of her clear happiness. “They’re a bit beyond my price range.” I thought about the numbers again, and sighed. “Actually, they’re a lot out of my price range. I can’t afford to get any of these. Not if I want to be able to get everything on my list and still have some spending money left over.” I had got that advance on my wages, plus a little extra from some discretionary fund or other that was supposed to go towards furnishing my room. But even with that, it wasn’t like I could really afford to go on a spree. “I mean, I’m more than happy to tag along with you around places like this,” I hastened to assure her. “But I think I’m going to have to do my own shopping somewhere… cheaper.”  
  
Victoria actually looked… stricken. I immediately felt like a heel of the worst order for putting such an expression on her face.  
  
“Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry, Astrid. I just didn’t think. Of course we can go somewhere less expensive. That’s no problem at all. I just got a little…” She waved her hand around vaguely.  
  
“Carried away?” I finished cautiously, hoping she wouldn’t take it as an insult. I smiled to make it clear that it wasn’t intended to be insulting.  
  
It was a relief when she smiled back.  
  
(Instead of, say, smacking me into the middle of next week.)  
  
“Yes, exactly,” she said. “I… kind of do that sometimes.”  
  
“I hadn’t noticed,” Amy said, the sarcasm in her voice an almost palpable force.  
  
“Oh, hush, you,” Victoria admonished her. Amy rolled her eyes. Victoria stuck her tongue out at her sister, and then looked back over at me. “But you should know that I am going to get you that dress. It looks utterly fabulous on you. It would be criminal to let you walk out of here without it, and I, as a superheroine par excellence, am in the business of stopping crime.”  
  
“I thought you were in the business of punching crime in the face,” Amy murmured slyly.  
  
I laughed before I could stop myself, breaking off guiltily. Luckily, Victoria didn’t seem to mind. At least not judging by the way she was grinning at Amy.  
  
“You have to admit, Ames, crime does tend to stop when I punch it,” she said airily. “But in this case, no punching required.” I opened my mouth to protest, only to close it again when Victoria gave me a stern look. “And don’t think you’re going to talk me out of it, young lady. Think of it as a ‘welcome to the ranks of Brockton Bay’s esteemed superheroes’ present.”  
  
That, honestly, made me feel pretty fucking weird. But… not necessarily in a bad way. And while I did feel a strong pang of guilt at the thought of accepting such a generous gift, Victoria had clearly made up her mind about this. So I swallowed my pride and my misgivings and made myself smile.  
  
It turned out to be easier than I would have expected.  
  
“Thank you,” I said softly.  
  
“You’re very welcome!” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Of course,” she mused. “You’re going to need a couple of accessories to go with it…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

  
Somehow, ‘a couple of accessories’ turned into a full set of jewellery, a shrug, a belt, some shoes (with high heels I in no way needed, but Victoria had just shrugged, said ‘if you’ve got it, flaunt it’) and a purse. And then there was the dress itself. My conscience made me at least attempt to protest, but Victoria merely smiled at me and said:  
  
“I like getting presents for my friends.”  
  
I was so stunned by the fact that Glory Girl was calling me — me! — a friend, that I just stood there as she sashayed off to join Dean in the line for the till. Dean, it seemed, wasn’t just along on this trip in his capacity as driver, porter, and co-performer in the Victoria and Dean (all-too) public display of (way too much) affection show, but also as a mobile bank. By which I meant that he was apparently happy to spend a truly mind-boggling amount of money buying Victoria any item of clothing she set her heart on.  
  
(Well, it was mind-boggling to me, anyway. Dean, though, didn’t so much as bat an eyelid at sums that would have made me balk a thousand times over. His family were rich, though, I knew. Like, really, really rich.)  
  
But then, I guess he did get the benefit of seeing her wearing said items of clothing afterwards. And some of them were seriously… Wow.  
  
(I was pretty sure that, if I were him, I’d think I’d gotten a bargain at twice the price.)  
  
Anyway, my thoughts were drifting again. I kept an eye on Victoria to make sure she didn’t pass my things over to Dean to pay for, but it seemed I needn’t have worried. She was getting Amy some stuff too, though. Apparently she only made Dean pay for her own acquisitions.  
  
“I generally find it’s easier just to go along with her.” Amy’s voice startled me a little. She hadn’t really shown any particular inclination to talk to me during any of the times it had ended up being just the two of us. Nor any of the rest of the time, either, but that made perfect sense. God knew I had trouble tearing my attention away from Victoria when she was present.  
  
“It’s a lot of money, though,” I said, frowning.  
  
“Not for her. Trust me.” Amy’s tone was dry as she added. “Being one of the most popular teen heroes in Brockton Bay turns out to be quite profitable in terms of merchandising royalties.”  
  
“Oh.” I’d honestly never really thought about it, but it made a lot of sense. Some of my lingering guilt eased at the thought. Not all of it, however. “It still seems like a lot to spend on someone she only just met.”  
  
“Victoria’s a generous girl.”  
  
There was a definite edge to those words. Did she think I was trying to take advantage of her sister’s generosity? Did she think mentioning my relatively impoverished state had been some kind of ploy to get Victoria to shower me with gifts?  
  
(Technically, I supposed I had more money to spend right now than I’d ever had in my life. But I also had expenses I’d never had to worry about when I was living at home. Like furnishing my room.)  
  
Fuck.  
  
What could I say that would convince her I wasn’t just some… opportunistic gold digger?  
  
Nothing came immediately to mind, and time seemed to slow to a crawl as the silence stretched ever onwards.  
  
Well, shit.  
  
This certainly was awkward.  
  
But, for once, I didn’t think it was actually entirely my fault.  
  
So… progress?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The sound of my stomach growling seemed to echo like thunder in the changing room. Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration. But Victoria definitely heard it, because she laughed and said:  
  
“I think that was a sign that we should probably break for lunch when we’re done here.”  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered, flushing.  
  
“No need to apologise,” Victoria assured me, and she sounded like she meant it. Not that I’d necessarily know if she didn’t, I guessed, but I decided to take it at face value. (Second-guessing every little thing everyone said was just exhausting. And I was already tired enough as it was.) “Anyway, I was thinking of suggesting we stop for food sometime soon. Then maybe we’ll do a little more clothes shopping.”  
  
“Because God knows you don’t have enough outfits already, Victoria,” Amy interjected, rolling her eyes.  
  
“And you wanted to go to Ikea, right?” Victoria continued smoothly.  
  
“Yes,” I said. “I already have a list of things I want to look at, though, so it shouldn’t take too long.”  
  
“You and your lists,” Victoria said, sounding amused.  
  
I flushed.  
  
“I like to be organised,” I muttered. “And it makes things go faster if I narrow down the options ahead of time.”  
  
There was nothing wrong with doing a little research ahead of time. It made the actual shopping process much more efficient. (Thus cutting down the amount of time I would have had to spend outside the safety of the PRT building, and reducing the risk of my father catching up with me.)  
  
“Each to their own,” Victoria said cheerfully. “Personally, I’m more of an impulse shopper. I like to wander around and see what speaks to me.”  
  
“You’re an impulse everything, Victoria,” Amy said with what sounded like fond exasperation.  
  
“You said that like it’s a bad thing,” Victoria drawled, grinning. “Anyway, let’s get a move on. We wouldn’t want poor Astrid to expire from hunger.”  
  
Amy raised her eyebrows. “You actually have the nerve to tell us to hurry up when you’re the one who’s been preening in front of the mirror for the past half an hour?”  
  
“I wasn’t preening,” Victoria retorted.  
  
As the Dallon sisters bickered, I quietly busied myself gathering up the discarded garments and putting them back on their hangers. And, for what felt like the billionth time this day, I found myself wondering:  
  
How the fuck was this now my life?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I wasn’t sure exactly how Dean ended up footing the bill for lunch. I guessed it had happened while I’d been distracted by Victoria telling me about her training regime. I was actually a little surprised. It seemed a little more… lax… than I would have expected for a member of New Wave, but then, I supposed it wasn’t exactly like she needed to work on her strength. I tried belatedly offering to pay my share, but Dean smiled and shook his head.  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” he said airily. “If it makes you feel better, consider it an apology for having your plans thrown into disarray.” I started to protest that he didn’t need to apologise, that I’d actually been enjoying myself, but he carried on speaking. “Anyway, Victoria would never let me hear the end of it if I took your money. I like you, Astrid, but I’m not going to piss off my girlfriend.”  
  
(It was ridiculous how happy it made me feel when he said that he liked me. That kind of thing had never been important to me before. But… I kind of thought I actually liked being liked.)  
  
(If he actually meant it, of course. If he wasn’t just being polite. Which he probably was. I mean, why would he like me? I didn’t particularly like me. But… he hadn’t been the only person to say that this week. Chris had said it too. Well, he’d said he’d liked spending time with me, which was almost the same thing. Even Dennis had said something along those lines, although he probably just meant he liked having someone around who was so easy to fluster. And Victoria had actually called me her friend.)  
  
(But my mind was wandering again.)  
  
“I can’t argue with that, I suppose,” I said. I wouldn’t want to piss off Victoria either. I mean, I wasn’t exactly sure why it would piss her off, but Dean knew her better than I did.  
  
Much, much better, and in ways I really didn’t want to think about. But somehow ended up thinking about when the two of them got… distracted by each other part way through lunch. Okay, this was really fucking uncomfortable. I mean, they weren’t doing anything yet, but with the way they were looking at each other it was only a matter of time and…  
  
And I needed to get out of here before I actually burst into flames.  
  
The two of them hadn’t finished their food yet — too distracted I guessed — but I’d polished off mine ages ago, and Amy was just aimlessly shredding the remaining third of her wrap, so I figured she was pretty much done.  
  
(I couldn’t help disapproving of the waste of food. Plus, there was nothing to the girl. She clearly needed to eat more, especially considering that she’d apparently skipped breakfast. And, no, a chocolate chip cookie or two emphatically did not make up for it. Frankly, I would have expected a healer to be better about that kind of thing.)  
  
More importantly, Amy looked just as uncomfortable as I felt, if not more so.  
  
(I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. I didn’t even want to think about how bad it would be if I was with Lance and one of his girlfriends. Of course, if Lance was here, that would be bad for whole other reasons, but I really didn’t want to think about that right now.)  
  
“Amy?” I said softly.  
  
“Yes?” She looked at me warily, like she was… not expecting an attack, exactly, but definitely expecting something unpleasant. I… guessed I must have made a pretty poor impression on her. I wondered if I could fix that.  
  
“I was thinking of going for a short walk to stretch my legs. Do you want to come with me?”  
  
“ **Yes** ,” she said again, much more firmly this time. She was on her feet before I was. “Victoria, Astrid and I are going for a walk. We won’t be long.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but didn’t, that just-bitten-into-something-sour expression back on her face again, if only for a moment.  
  
“Okay, see you shortly.” Victoria actually seemed pleased.  
  
“See you in a bit,” Dean echoed.  
  
Was it just my imagination, or did he look a little guilty? As well he damn well should! I had half a mind to have a few pointed words with him about what was and was not appropriate behaviour in a public venue when I got the chance. Except… no, I wouldn’t. Because if I tried, I probably would actually expire from embarrassment. Whether or not it was actually possible to do so.  
  
Amy made a noise that could be a grunt of farewell, or just an annoyed huff — or maybe a little of both — and stalked away, leaving me standing there awkwardly.  
  
“Bye,” I said, giving Victoria and Dean an awkward wave, and hurried to catch up with her.  
  
Since she seemed to know where she was going — or, at least, to know what direction she wanted to stomp off in — I let her take the lead, easily matching her pace. We walked in silence for a while. I would say we wandered aimlessly, but Amy definitely had an air of purpose to her movements. Whether that purpose was to do with heading for somewhere in particular, or simply wanting to get away from the food court, and the lovebirds, I had absolutely no idea. I certainly wasn’t going to ask.  
  
Anyway, it was kind of nice, just walking. Not feeling like I had to try to make conversation. Not feeling the confusing mixture of exhilaration and trepidation that seemed to be a feature of being around Victoria. (I mean, I liked her, and I liked being around her, but it was just a little bit exhausting at times.) Not thinking about anything except how good it felt to move after sitting on those stupid plastic seats for a while, and about how awesome it felt to send my power dancing through the whole goddamned mall. (Even if I was really careful just to look, not… touch. And even if I was cautious about how much detail I allowed myself to see.)  
  
Eventually, though, Amy’s pace slowed a little, and she led me through a side entrance and into an outdoor seating area; a small, paved courtyard scattered with bushes and trees and benches. It was actually relatively deserted, I couldn’t help noticing. I guessed it was, technically, still the tail end of winter, even if it wasn’t actually all that cold.  
  
(Huh. Well, that was interesting. Apparently my power still considered this area to be part of the mall. Because it was enclosed on four sides? I guessed that did make some kind of sense. I’d have to note that observation down when I had the chance.)  
  
She plonked herself down on a bench and turned to fix me with a wary, expectant look. I sat a little more cautiously.  
  
(It made me ridiculously happy to discover that, beneath its bright coat of yellow paint, the bench was made of wrought iron. Metal felt really fucking amazing to my power. It was actually something of a struggle not to let myself play with it a little. I guessed that was one downside of having stayed in the PRT building all week — I’d gotten kind of used to being able to mess around with my metal pretty much whenever I wanted. Not being able to do that was starting to make me a little antsy.)  
  
(I wondered if I should be worried about that.)  
  
I tried not to feel unnerved by Amy’s gimlet-eyed stare. (I… wasn’t entirely successful.) Since I had no fucking clue what her problem was, I turned my face up to the sky and simply enjoyed feeling sunlight on my face and metal beneath my hands.  
  
“It’s nice to get a bit of fresh air,” I murmured, without really meaning to speak. “And to see the sun without a pane of glass in the way.”  
  
“You… haven’t been out in a while?” Amy’s voice was cautious.  
  
“About a week,” I said.  
  
“Why not?” she asked, after a moment.  
  
Shit. I really didn’t think this through, did I?  
  
“I’ve been busy,” I said brusquely, hoping my tone would make it clear that I really didn’t want to talk about this right now. Or, in fact, ever.  
  
Anyway, it was true: I had been busy. And-  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
What had I been thinking, going off with only Panacea for company? What if Dad was here? If he’d figured out I’d joined the Wards, he could have had some members of his squad watching the building so they could let him know if I left. If they’d spotted me in Dean’s car; if they’d tailed me here…  
  
I mean, I hadn’t spotted any familiar faces, but between my exhaustion and the distraction of Victoria’s presence, I knew I hadn’t exactly been at the top of my game. Shit, I didn’t think I’d even checked at all when I was following Amy out here, and I didn’t even have the excuse of Victoria’s presence now.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I should be better than this. I had to be better than this. I… I couldn’t go back. I **couldn’t**.  
  
“Are you alright?” Amy’s voice startled me out of my thoughts.  
  
I took a breath and forced my features into an expression of what I hoped was nothing more than mild vexation.  
  
“Fine,” I said carelessly. “I just remembered something annoying, that’s all. It wasn’t anything important.” She frowned like she didn’t believe me, so I frantically cast about for something else to say. “So, just out of curiosity…”  
  
Amy seemed to almost hunch in on herself, and I broke off mid-sentence, looking at her in surprise. What had I said?  
  
“Yes?” she snapped, before I could pick up the thread of my thought.  
  
“Um, are Victoria and Dean always so… demonstrative?”  
  
She looked surprised for a moment, and then scowled fiercely.  
  
“Pretty much,” she said. “Well, maybe they are being worse than usual today, but it’s hard to tell. I tend to pretty much tune it out.”  
  
“I… see,” I said.  
  
I was honestly having a little trouble reconciling the way Dean was around Victoria with the gentle, laid back — if kind of snarky — guy he’d seemed to be around me. I mean, it wasn’t like he was a different person or anything, but there were definitely noticeable differences in his demeanour and in how he talked. He was a lot more… challenging, I guessed, around her. Maybe even forceful. I honestly wouldn’t have expected that at all. (It kind of made me re-evaluate him as a threat.) But… she certainly seemed to appreciate it.  
  
(I tried unsuccessfully to keep the flush from my cheeks.)  
  
But, I guessed it wasn’t so unusual. People often did act differently depending on who they were with at the time. I knew I sure as shit did, so why wouldn’t Dean?  
  
“Anyway,” Amy continued. “Sometimes, instead of… that.” She grimaced. “The two of them have a screaming argument followed by a break up, after which I get to comfort my crying sister.”  
  
Okay, that didn’t sound like Dean at all. I couldn’t imagine him even losing his temper, let alone actually screaming at anyone.  
  
(I had to quell a stupid flare of anger at him for making Victoria cry. And it really was stupid. From what Amy had said — and from seeing Victoria and Dean together — I had the feeling that Victoria was more than capable of giving as good as she got. Anyway, Dean was my team mate. He was the one I should back up. No matter how much I happened to like Victoria.)  
  
“Does that happen often?” I asked.  
  
“Fairly,” she said dryly. “And then it’s ice-cream and weepy movies and spending a whole day in pyjamas on the sofa because ‘everything is terrible’ and ‘my heart is broken’ and ‘Dean’s an **asshole** ,’ etcetera and so on.” Okay, that… was a lot of vitriol in the word asshole. And it didn’t just sound like she was imitating Victoria. I was sort of starting to get the idea that Amy didn’t actually like Dean all that much. “At least until the two of them make up again, which is quite often the very next day. So then it’s back to sunshine and smiles and the two of them molesting each other in public. And so the cycle continues.”  
  
“That sounds exhausting,” I said, a little stunned.  
  
“It seems to work for them,” Amy said sourly.  
  
I guessed I could see why she might have something of a jaundiced view of her sister’s boyfriend. It couldn’t be fun alternating between unwilling voyeur and emotional support system. I did not know what to say to that, though. I mean, Lance and I had our issues, but at least I was able to remain comfortably ignorant of his love life.  
  
Silence fell between us again, and once again Amy kept her gaze on me, practically radiating dread. And… irritation. Shit, I did not need this right now.  
  
“So, are you happy with your new clothes?” I asked, completely unable to think of a graceful segue from the previous topic of conversation. “That blue dress was really pretty.”  
  
“Yes,” she said, after a moment.  
  
I wasn’t sure which part it was a response to, and Amy didn’t seem inclined to give me any clues. Fuck, this was like pulling teeth! Nevertheless, I persevered. (If nothing else, it beat worrying about whether Dad was about to step out of the shadows and drag me away.)  
  
“Victoria really seems to like putting together outfits,” I tried.  
  
“She loves it,” Amy said. I was actually surprised when she continued speaking. “Her friends all come to her for fashion advice.” She shrugged, giving me a look I couldn’t quite interpret, but which nevertheless made my hackles rise. “Sometimes she even helps out complete strangers if she thinks they need it. You know, like a project.”  
  
Wait…. She was saying that this was…? That I was…?  
  
(But Victoria had called me her friend. She wouldn’t have said that if I was just a… a project would she?)  
  
(But it did make a certain kind of sense.)  
  
(After all, why the fuck would someone like her ever be friends with someone like me?)  
  
Oh, fuck it. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t like I even knew Victoria anyway. And I probably did need the help. Fashion wasn’t exactly my strong suit. Anyway, the experience had still been fun, even if it had been motivated by something that sounded an awful lot like goddamn pity.  
  
“That’s nice of her,” I said through gritted teeth, telling myself that smacking Panacea in her stupid freckled face would be a horrible, horrible idea. Like, the worst idea in the whole fucking history of bad ideas.  
  
I did not want to thump Amy Dallon.  
  
Even if she was a fucking bitch.  
  
“My sister is nice,” Amy said. “And generous, and caring, and considerate. And she has a way of making even the most insignificant of people feel like they’re important; that they’re on top of the world. I’m not even sure she’s aware that she’s doing it, sometimes. It’s just how she is. She’s like that with everyone.”  
  
I… kind of wanted to thump Amy.  
  
Like I needed this stuck up, snotty cow to tell me that I wasn’t important; wasn’t special. That Victoria was like this with everyone. I knew that! I knew it didn’t mean anything when she smiled at me like she genuinely cared about what I had to say. Only an idiot would think otherwise, and I wasn’t an idiot.  
  
I wasn’t mad about that at all. I was just pissed off that Amy clearly thought I was completely oblivious, and had obviously decided to correct that in the most condescending way possible.  
  
Maybe she was trying to help, in her own way; ripping the bandaid off before I could get too mired in a delusion I didn’t actually possess.  
  
Maybe.  
  
Fuck. I would’ve thought that a healer would at least have had some fucking tact, though. It was a good job I already knew all this. Someone who hadn’t figured it out, someone who’d been drawn in by Victoria’s charm and her smile and her hugs and her warmth and was starting to think that possibly, maybe, perhaps she really meant it when she called them a friend…  
  
Someone like that might have ended up absolutely devastated.  
  
“I can see how that could be a problem,” I said, my words sounding stiff and stilted.  
  
Amy looked sharply at me — I was starting to think that ’sharp’ was the only way she knew — and opened her mouth to speak, but I didn’t fucking want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear anything she had to say.  
  
“We should probably get back,” I said flatly, talking right over her. “They’ll be wondering where we are.” I shoved myself to my feet, almost welcoming the pain as my body protested the sudden movement. It gave me something to focus on instead of how much I wanted to beat the world’s best healer black and blue.  
  
Shit. What did that say about me, that I wanted to smack around a fucking healer? Even if she was a raging bitch, that was no excuse.  
  
I thought I was actually backsliding. What next? Kicking puppies?  
  
But that just made me remember knocking Chris down and then I felt even worse.  
  
Maybe this whole outing was just a bad fucking idea in the first place.  
  
“They’ll be too busy with each other to so much as spare us a passing thought,” Amy said tartly. “Trust me, we’ve got some time.”  
  
“Time for what?”  
  
Shit. I’d said that out loud, and in just the same belligerent, hostile tone in which I’d said it in my head. Well I could hardly take the words back now, so I owned them instead, staring at the bitch with a challenge in my eyes.  
  
“You know what,” she said tightly. “The whole reason you asked me to take a fucking walk with you in the first place.”  
  
And there was that wary, expectant, dread-filled look again, only this time backed with a whole fuck of a lot of resentment, but I really did not have the patience or inclination to put up with her bullshit right now.  
  
“Amy,” I said, and I didn’t even bother to keep the anger out of my voice. “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. I asked if you wanted to come with me because I thought maybe you were a little fucking tired of watching your sister suck face with her boyfriend. That’s it. I know you’ve had a hair up your ass about something this whole damn trip but, since I don’t speak bitchface, if you want me to actually know what’s on your mind you’re going to have to use your fucking words and tell me. Or, you know, don’t. It’s your choice.”  
  
Amy surged to her feet and advanced on me, glaring. I stood my fucking ground and glared right back.  
  
“Do you seriously expect me to believe,” she spat. “That you’re not going to beg me to heal you? That you haven’t just been trying to work up the nerve to bring it up this whole time?”  
  
I stared at her for a moment, mingled confusion and incandescent rage temporarily robbing me of the ability to speak. I forced myself to take a breath.  
  
“First of all,” I said, making sure to enunciate my words very clearly and carefully, and to keep my voice low. “I’ve never begged anyone for anything in my whole fucking life, and I sure as shit am not going to start now. Second of all, why the fuck would I ask you to heal me? It’s not like I’m dying or anything.”  
  
If I’d been expecting that to make her any less mad, then I couldn’t have been more wrong.  
  
“So, what, you’re just trying to make me look bad? Is that it?” She glared at me like she was trying to bore a hole through my head with nothing but sheer fury.  
  
I shook my head, not so much in answer as in utter befuddlement.  
  
“What the fuck do you mean?”  
  
“What I mean is that people are going see Panacea walking around with a girl who’s covered in bruises and not healing her! How do you think that’s going to make me look?”  
  
“How the fuck is that my problem?” I demanded. “Anyway, you said you didn’t want to heal me. Now you do? Make up your fucking mind, Amy!”  
  
“Oh, just give me your hand,” she snapped, reaching for me. I pulled away without thinking about it. Honestly, she was lucky I hadn’t just smacked her on instinct alone. She stopped and sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. “I have to touch you to heal you,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to a fucking five year old.  
  
“I don’t like being touched,” I snarled at her, more rattled than I cared to admit.  
  
“You didn’t seem to have a problem with Victoria touching you,” she retorted.  
  
I opened my mouth to snap back at her, and then closed it again, confused. For some reason, my cheeks were burning again.  
  
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, resisting the urge to fidget restlessly. “That was her aura.”  
  
“Of course it was,” Amy murmured, rolling her eyes.  
  
I glared at her. I should probably have just changed the subject, or told her to shut the fuck up, but apparently today was not my day for making good choices.  
  
“It was,” I said flatly. But I just didn’t have the energy to maintain the glare right now, the exhaustion creeping forward again. I sighed, feeling conflicted all over again. “Anyway, it’s not like I could stop her.”  
  
“What?” Amy sounded completely confused.  
  
I raised my eyebrows. “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s quite a bit stronger than I am.”  
  
“Yes, but…” She shook her head. “If she was making you uncomfortable, you could have just asked her not to. She wouldn’t have minded.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” I said quickly. Fuck. I was starting to think I should just take a vow of silence. It would save me so much trouble. “I mean, she wasn’t, not really.” And the hug had been… nice. “It just took a bit of getting used to. But it’s fine. And, like I said: aura.”  
  
I made myself stop talking.  
  
Amy studied me, frowning. “Victoria wouldn’t hurt you,” she said slowly.  
  
“I didn’t say she would,” I retorted, feeling really fucking annoyed with myself.  
  
“But you said-“  
  
“I know what I said,” I ground out. “But I didn’t mean…” I shook my head, utterly frustrated with my apparent complete inability to properly articulate my thoughts. “I was just making an observation, that’s all. Just forget I said anything.”  
  
Seriously, what was she so confused about? She knew what her sister’s powers were. Why would she be surprised that someone might be a little cautious around her? Admittedly, I hadn’t been as wary as I ordinarily would have been, but then, like I’d said: aura.  
  
It was that fucking simple.  
  
Amy frowned at me for a few moments longer and then, much to my relief, sighed deeply and said: “Fine. Whatever. Now will you please just give me your damn hand so we can get this over with?”  
  
“I’m fine,” I said, tightly. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You should probably save your energy for people who actually need healing.”  
  
The look she gave me was distinctly unimpressed.  
  
“And you have medical training, do you?”  
  
“I… know first aid,” I muttered, flushing a little.  
  
“Oh, well,” she sniffed. “My mistake. Clearly you’re the real expert here.”  
  
“There’s no need for that kind of sarcasm,” I said stiffly.  
  
“I disagree. I think there’s every need. It’s obviously the only way to get you to realise how ridiculous you’re being. Now stop being so stubborn and give me your hand.”  
  
I started to reach out, then hesitated, unsure.  
  
She huffed out an impatient breath.  
  
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll just take a look, alright? Just to see exactly how bad it really is. I’ll ask before actually doing any healing. Okay?”  
  
That… didn’t sound too bad, I supposed.  
  
“Okay,” I said, cautiously holding out my hand.  
  
Rolling her eyes just a tad more dramatically that the situation really called for, Amy took my hand.  
  
“Huh,” she said quietly, and gave me an unreadable look. “Not planning on going back to him, are you?”  
  
“What?” I asked, a little startled.  
  
“Your father, I’m guessing,” she said, matter of factly. “The person, or people, who did this to you.”  
  
I blinked at her for a moment, and glanced around. There wasn’t anyone in earshot that I could see, but I lowered my voice anyway.  
  
“No, of course not,” I said, feeling uneasy and angry and… I didn’t know what else. “I thought you knew. I’m living… elsewhere now.” I suppressed a shiver; wondered nervously if she could sense that. “I have no fucking intention of going back home, believe me.”  
  
“You wouldn’t be the first person who’s told me that,” she said, still in that same level, matter of fact tone. “And if you did change your mind, you wouldn’t be the first person to do that either.”  
  
“I’m not going to change my mind.”  
  
She looked at me for a long moment. I felt like a bug under a microscope; like she could see right through me. Given her power, I guessed that wasn’t exactly an inapt description.  
  
“Huh,” she said again, her tone giving no indication as to whether or not she believed me. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “So. You don’t think you need healing.”  
  
It wasn’t exactly a question, but I answered anyway. “Not really. Like I said, I’m not dying or anything.” She didn’t reply, just continuing to look at me. Was she distracted by her power? Had she got lost in it, like I was tempted to do with mine, sometimes? I’d never particularly been the kind of person who chattered just to fill the silence, but nevertheless I felt myself driven to say something, if only to distract myself from that penetrating, implacable stare. “It’s not that bad. It’s… just…” Was she… glaring at me? Had I pissed her off somehow? “Surface… damage?” I finished weakly.  
  
“Surface damage?” She snorted. “This time. Mostly. I guess. If you don’t count the ruptured blood vessels, torn muscle fibres, and bruised internal organs. Not to mention the hairline fractures in your right wrist and several of your ribs.” Her tone was clinical, almost bored; like she was reciting a shopping list. “But that’s the key: this time. Your body is a map of layered injuries; damaged, imperfectly healed, damaged again. Like I said: I’ve seen this before. It’s the product of a lifetime of abuse.”  
  
“It wasn’t abuse,” I snapped, bristling. “I’m not a fucking **victim**.”  
  
“I’ve heard that before, too,” she retorted. “Too many times to count.” I clenched my jaw shut on the angry words that wanted to burst out; kept my body still and my power as tightly leashed as I could manage. She quirked an eyebrow at me, looking weirdly… curious. “You’re really angry with me right now, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yeah,” I ground out. “Little bit.”  
  
“Increased pulse rate and respiration, spikes in the production of adrenaline, noradrenaline and cortisol, among other hormones, and your amygdala is lit up like a christmas tree.” She recited the words in a dry, clinical tone; like she wasn’t just describing the kind of fury that could drive a someone to smack a bitch. “I’d say ‘little bit’ is something of an understatement.” A tight smile curved her lips, briefly. “But then I guess we already know you have a talent for that.”  
  
I just scowled at her, not trusting myself to speak.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “I’m really not the one you should be angry with, you know.”  
  
“You’re the one calling me weak!” I snapped.  
  
She snorted. “Let me guess: you don’t think husbands ever get beaten by their much smaller wives.”  
  
I gave her a confused sort-of glare, not entirely sure how to react to that. And then I belatedly registered what she’d said before.  
  
“Fractures?” I said faintly. Stupidly, I glanced down at my wrist, like it would look any different, now that I knew. “The doctor didn’t say anything about fractures.”  
  
“They probably didn’t realise,” Amy said, shrugging. “Like I said: hairline. Anyway, it’s not like these ones are your first.”  
  
“What?” I said, my eyes widening.  
  
“Your whole body’s riddled with micro-fractures. You see it with boxers and other people that get hit a lot.” She pursed her lips. “Still, there’s some good news. At least he seems to have mostly kept away from your head, so there’s not much brain damage. Not that I can do anything about that anyway.”  
  
I gaped wordlessly, too stunned to even think about responding.  
  
Riddled?  
  
Really?  
  
But… that couldn’t be right. Dad didn’t hit me that hard.  
  
Did he?  
  
But Amy didn’t have any reason to lie to me…  
  
“So?” Her impatient voice snapped me out of my daze. “Are you going to let me heal you, then? I really don’t want to spend any more time with you looking like a walking bruise if I can help it.”  
  
I… I’d coped with worse.  
  
I could stand a little… a little pain.  
  
I didn’t… didn’t need… didn’t need anyone’s help.  
  
But I…  
  
But…  
  
Fractures?  
  
“Yes,” I said. I made myself swallow my pride and add: “Please.”  
  
“Like pulling teeth,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Right,” she continued. “Sit down.” I obeyed numbly. (It was almost a relief to have orders to follow. I wasn’t sure I was capable of thinking for myself right now.) “Now, this is going to feel really weird…”  
  
She wasn’t wrong.  
  
Part of me wanted to pay attention to every little detail. I mean, it wasn’t often that you got to observe a power as fascinating as hers. But, honestly, I just didn’t have the energy. So I just sat there, my mind reeling.  
  
Fractures.  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Right. All done,” she said, an indeterminate amount of time later, letting go of my hand.  
  
I blinked at her, and rotated my wrist experimentally. Nothing. Not even a twinge. I leaned back a little, so my back actually rested against the bench, tensing a little in anticipation. Still no pain.  
  
“It doesn’t hurt,” I said, looking at Amy.  
  
“I should think not,” she sniffed. “I don’t do sloppy work.”  
  
“No,” I said, struggling for words. “I mean… Nothing hurts. At all. I don’t mean just the injuries. Even the normal aches and pains are all gone.”  
  
“Pain isn’t normal,” Amy said firmly. “If you’re hurting, that means there’s something wrong.”  
  
“It’s… normal for me,” I said softly. I wasn’t sure I even remembered what it felt like not to hurt in some way. This felt… weird.  
  
Amy shrugged. “Not any more,” she said briskly. “Now, you’re going to be really hungry for the next day or so. Make sure you eat, or your body will start breaking down muscle tissue, and I don’t think you want that.”  
  
“No,” I said, horrified. “Definitely not. I’ll remember to eat. Um, should I have anything in particular?”  
  
“Lots of meat, or other protein-rich foods. Have a burger or three when we get back to the food court.”  
  
I nodded, frowning. “Okay.” Three burgers? Really? I guessed I’d just take it one at a time and see how it went.  
  
“You’re also exhausted,” Amy continued. “So I’ve made a few temporary tweaks that should make you more alert for the rest of the day, and will ensure that you get at about eight to ten hours of uninterrupted sleep tonight. I suggest you have an early night.”  
  
I felt a little conflicted about that. I did need to sleep, I knew, but…  
  
“Will I still be able to wake up?” I asked. Because while being woken up by nightmares sucked royally, not being able to wake up from them would be far, far worse.  
  
“Yes,” she said, after a moment, casually adding: “The sleep should be dreamless.”  
  
It took a moment for that to sink in, and then I honestly could have hugged her. Instead, I just met her gaze and said: “Thank you.” It didn’t seem like nearly enough. “For all of it. I… really appreciate it.” Fuck, it still wasn’t enough, but what else could I say? What she’d just done for me… I owed her, and I wasn’t sure I could ever pay her back. “Thank you,” I said again, helplessly.  
  
Amy looked at me for a moment and inclined her head. “You’re welcome,” she said. Her face got that slightly pinched look again, the one’d like she’d bitten into something sour, and she said: “I guess I should probably apologise. I’m having a bad day, and I might have been a bit short with you. Now, if we can never mention this again, it will make my day that much brighter.”  
  
Huh. I had not expected to get an apology from her, even one as backhanded as that.  
  
“Apology accepted,” I said lightly. I felt kind of like I was floating. Nothing hurt. At all. It was really weird. Good weird, though. Definitely good weird. I wondered if this was what it felt like to be high. I found myself smiling at Amy. “Anyway, shall we head back to the food court? Hopefully Victoria and Dean will have been able to tear themselves away from each other by now.”  
  
Amy rolled her eyes.  
  
“If only we were that lucky,” she murmured.  
  
But she followed me anyway.


	29. Aphenphosmphobia 3.02

“Looking good, Astrid.”  
  
I paused in the middle of putting away my groceries and turned to glare at Dennis. He just… smiled at me. Not smirked: just smiled. Was he mocking me? I honestly wasn’t sure. This was the first time he’d really spoken to me since I tried to knock his block off on Tuesday.  
  
(I tried to tell myself I hadn’t felt bad about that.)  
  
I certainly hadn’t missed his constant needling.  
  
(Even if, on rare occasions, he actually did manage to be something approaching funny.)  
  
But… he was still my team mate, even if he was an asshole. So I should probably at least attempt to be civil.  
  
(At least until he gave me a reason to smack him down.)  
  
“Thanks,” I muttered warily, flushing a little. “I went clothes shopping.” I was wearing some of my new purchases right now, in fact. Just jeans and a T-shirt, nothing fancy, but Victoria had said that they fit me better than the ones I’d been wearing. (My stomach fluttered uneasily as I remembered how it had felt when she’d smiled her approval at me. But I couldn’t think about that right now.) She’d been right, I guessed. “And I got a haircut.”  
  
“And you met Panacea, I see,” he said gently, and I immediately felt like an idiot. Of course that was what he’d meant. I guessed it was pretty goddamned obvious that the bruises were gone.  
  
I shrugged, and it was fucking amazing to be able to do that without even the slightest twinge of pain; not to have to worry about tearing open some scab or other.  
  
(It felt peculiar, like I was anaesthetised. I was half-expecting it to wear off at any moment.)  
  
“Dean brought Victoria and Amy over. Victoria invited me to join the three of them on their shopping trip.” I hesitated a moment, and then added: “I didn’t ask Amy to heal me. She offered.” I grimaced. “Actually, she was pretty insistent about it, in a bitchy kind of way.”  
  
To my surprise, Dennis actually face-palmed.  
  
“Why am I not surprised that she had to insist?” he muttered, the words a little muffled by his hand.  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded, not sure whether or not to be offended.  
  
“That you’re stubborn,” he said, coming further into the kitchen.  
  
I tensed a little at his approach, eyeing him suspiciously. Just because he hadn’t retaliated for my attempt to smack him down at the time, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to. But he stayed on the other side of the kitchen table to me, and his posture remained relaxed. All he did was peer interestedly at the bags I had yet to unpack.  
  
“I’m not stubborn,” I muttered, reaching for the bag I’d been in the middle of emptying out when he’d interrupted me.  
  
“She says, stubbornly,” he retorted, grinning when I glared at him. “So, what did you think of the inimitable Dallon sisters?” he asked, curiously.  
  
I remembered my first glimpse of Victoria standing in the doorway and struggled to keep the flush from my cheeks. It was embarrassing, how I’d been so completely bowled over by her aura. Embarrassing… and kind of unsettling. Looking back on the shopping trip, I’d acted so differently around her compared to how I acted around everyone else. I mean, I still liked her. Actually, I liked her a lot. She was strong, smart, confident, generous and completely unselfconscious, not to mention funny. I could definitely see what Dean saw in her. But I was more than a little freaked out at the way I’d barely been able to pay attention to anyone else when she was talking to me. And then there was the fact that I’d let her manhandle me without so much as a word of protest. The fact that I hadn’t been freaked out at the time just freaked me out all the more right now.  
  
It was… weird.  
  
“Victoria’s nice,” I said belatedly, realising I had to say something. “But kind of… intense. That aura of hers…” I shook my head, trying not to shudder (trying not to think of how good it had felt when she’d smiled at me). “I’ve never experienced anything like it.”  
  
“Yeah, sometimes you have to remind her to dial it down a bit,” he said, not unsympathetically. “But you do get used to it, a little. And apparently the first time’s always more intense.”  
  
“I see,” I said, a little relieved. And pretty fucking surprised that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to make some sort of smutty joke about ‘first times,’ but I wasn’t complaining.  
  
“What about Amy?”  
  
“More of a bitch than I would’ve expected,” I said. “But she healed me, so I guess that more than makes up for it.”  
  
“I can see how it would,” he murmured. Much to my relief, he then changed the subject. “Tired of the canteen food already?” he asked, nodded at the groceries I was unpacking.  
  
“Not quite yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” I shrugged once more, surprised all over again that I could do that without pain. (Fuck. How was I ever going to pay Amy back for this?) “Anyway, I like cooking.”  
  
“Huh,” he said, thoughtfully. “Aren’t you full of surprises.” His grin widened. “Well, if ever you need a taste-tester, I selflessly volunteer my services.”  
  
“By which he means he’ll happily help himself to any food lying around the place, regardless of who it belongs to,” came Dean’s voice, his tone dry. “So be on your guard.”  
  
I glanced up to see Dennis giving a grinning Dean a shocked look.  
  
I really hoped he hadn’t overheard me calling his girlfriend’s sister a bitch.  
  
(I tried not to think of their presence in terms of being outnumbered. We were all on the same team, after all, and Dean hadn’t said or done anything to indicate that he might be annoyed with me. Just because I’d re-evaluated his potential as a threat didn’t mean that he was actually a threat to me right now.)  
  
(Even if I was pretty sure that Dennis was.)  
  
“Et tu Dean? Really? I’m hurt that you would say such thing. Hurt, I tell you.”  
  
“Oh?” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “So it was some other redheaded miscreant who helped himself to my biscotti last week?”  
  
Dennis drew himself up as if to protest, but subsided again when Dean gave him a distinctly unimpressed look.  
  
“Well, in my defence, they were delicious,” he muttered. “And you didn’t put your name on them.”  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. I shook my head, amused despite myself. I also made a mental note to label my things.  
  
“Steal my food and I will cut you,” I told Dennis. I was… mostly joking. I mean, I wouldn’t actually cut him. Thump him, maybe, but not actually cut him. But the idea of someone helping themselves to my food was not a thing I took lightly. Rather than looking suitably chastened, however, he just grinned.  
  
“Ever noticed how all the girls around here are so violent?” he very pointedly asked Dean. “Do you think it’s something in the water?”  
  
“Maybe you just bring out the violence in us,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.  
  
(I wondered if he was going to tell Dean that I’d tried to hit him. Worse, I wondered if he was going to tell Carlos. Shit, maybe he had already.)  
  
“I think you might be onto something there, Astrid,” Dean told me, sounding amused. “But, anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Carlos and I have finished bringing everything down, and we can take it to your room whenever you’re ready.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said. “I just need a couple of minutes to finish putting the food away, and then I’ll come through.”  
  
“Okay, we’ll be in the Hub,” he told me, and headed out. I was half-expecting Dennis to head out with him, but he leaned against the edge of the table and raised his eyebrows, giving me a curious look.  
  
“Just how many items of clothing did you buy, that you needed Dean and Carlos to carry them down?”  
  
“I got some furniture for my room as well,” I said, feeling vaguely irritated at the suggestion that I would actually buy an entire car-load of clothes.  
  
I also felt more than a little uncomfortable at the thought of Carlos fetching and carrying for me. But he’d offered, and I hadn’t known how to say no. Dean was the one who’d suggested I put the groceries away while the two of them unloaded everything else from the car. I might have bristled about the implication that I wasn’t strong enough to carry the furniture but, honestly, I was just happy to be out of Carlos’ way.  
  
Fuck. I really needed to get over this stupid twitchiness I seemed to have around him. It was utterly ridiculous.  
  
Speaking of twitchiness, I was starting to get a little antsy just having Dennis at my back.  
  
“Anyway, did you actually want something, or did you just come in here to irritate me?”  
  
(Had he come here to get some payback for Tuesday after all?)  
  
“What, I can’t do both at once?” he said, grinning. I shot him a glower, which seemed not to faze him in the slightest. “I actually came to get a drink, but you’re sort of monopolising that part of the kitchen at the moment. I figured I’d wait until you were done. Unless you want a hand?”  
  
“No thanks, I’ve got it,” I said. The last thing I needed when I was feeling this on edge was to have someone near me. Especially someone who might be holding a grudge. “What drink did you want? That vile-looking green one?”  
  
He gave me an offended look. “Vile-looking? I think you mean luminous. And yes, I was going to get a Mountain Dew.”  
  
I retrieved one from the fridge and handed it to him. “There you go.”  
  
“Thanks,” he said, accepting it. He started to unscrew the cap, and then stopped, holding the bottle up. “Sure you don’t want to try some?”  
  
I was going to refuse, but…  
  
“Okay,” I said.  
  
I was kind of curious as to what my power would make of it. Anyway, a sip of the stuff probably wasn’t going to do me any lasting harm. Probably.  
  
“Really?” Dennis blinked at me, looking a little surprised.  
  
“I just want to know if it tastes as vile as it looks,” I said wryly, retrieving a glass from the cupboard and setting it on the table. I eyed the bottle dubiously. “Because it looks like something that should only be handled with hazmat gear.”  
  
“Philistine,” he told me cheerfully, pouring a little bit into the glass. “But I am confident that you’ll see the light.”  
  
I raised the glass in a toast. “We who are about to die salute you.” I took a sip, deliberately damping down my power as much as I could to get an idea of what the stuff tasted like normally. I pulled a face. “Thats… interesting.” I took another sip, this time letting my power trace out the molecules it was made from. _Glucose, fructose, caffeine…_ I raised my eyebrows. “Bromosalicylic acid? Really? That cannot be good for you. And… some kind of azo compound?”  I took another small sip. “Trisodium sulfonatophenyl-sulfonatophenlyazo-pyrazolone-carboxylate…” I raised my eyebrows at Dennis, who was looking at me somewhat bemusedly. “How can you drink this shit?”  
  
“Because it tastes good?”  
  
“If you say so,” I sniffed. Annoyingly, though, it… kind of did. At least to my power. Not that I would ever drink it willingly, now I knew what was in it. I tipped the dregs down the sink and rinsed up the glass.  
  
“So, your power works through taste as well as touch?”  
  
“Yeah,” I said, mentally kicking myself. I hadn’t meant to give that away. I didn’t even have the excuse of tiredness right now either, thanks to Amy’s ‘tweaks.’ I’d just gotten a little caught up in my power and spoken without thinking.  
  
“That must suck,” he said, after a moment.  
  
I shrugged, going back to putting my groceries away. “It’s not so bad. I’m getting used to it, anyway.” I glanced up to see him taking a swig of his drink, and shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re actually drinking that.”  
  
“It still tastes good,” he said, shrugging. “Anyway, it hasn’t done me any harm so far.”  
  
“If you say so,” I muttered. I quickly finished putting my groceries away, wondering why Dennis was still hanging around now that he’d got his drink. I… had a bad feeling about this. I kept an eye on him as I went to leave the kitchen — if he was going to do anything, now was the time — and, sure enough, he moved to intercept me.  
  
“Hey, Astrid,” he started to say, and then broke off, looking surprised.  
  
“What?” I asked cautiously, aware that I’d automatically twitched into a defensive stance, that my metal was bristling, but unwilling to make myself stand down.  
  
He stared at me for a moment, and then, to my surprise, actually backed up a step.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, slowly.  
  
“Why not?” I demanded. “I tried to hurt you. And now I’m not damaged any more, you don’t have a reason to hold back.”  
  
It wasn’t until the words were out of my mouth that I realised what had been nagging at me ever since I got back to the Wards HQ. If my injuries were the only reason why everyone except Shadow Stalker had been so… so gentle with me, now I’d been healed, they were going to start treating me more… normally. It wasn’t like I hadn’t broken rules already, after all, and maybe Carlos had just been waiting until he was sure I could take whatever punishment he thought I deserved.  
  
Maybe Dennis was the same.  
  
(I didn’t think Chris was, but then maybe he was an exception.)  
  
(The one person who wasn’t a threat to me in that way.)  
  
(Unless I’d gotten that wrong, too.)  
  
Dennis was staring at me, his eyes wide, and I wasn’t sure why. Was he surprised I’d figured out what he was doing?  
  
“Is that what you thought?” he asked after a moment, his voice surprisingly soft. “That I was just…” He shook his head. “Biding my time while I plotted my revenge? Waiting until you weren’t…” He grimaced. “Damaged, so I could… what? Damage you some more?”  
  
I frowned at him, confused by his apparent confusion. Was he playing with me? Mocking me? Trying to lull me into a false sense of security? What was the fucking point? If he was going to take a shot at me, why not just get it the fuck over with so we could move past it?  
  
“Pretty much,” I said flatly. He didn’t reply right away, so I added: “You’ve been avoiding me since Tuesday night. I thought you were angry with me. Plus you were hanging around here for no real reason that I could see, and then you got between me and the exit. What was I supposed to think?”  
  
“Shit,” he said quietly. To my surprise, he face-palmed again, the movement making me twitch a little even though he was nowhere near me. “I really didn’t think this through well at all,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping visibly. I watched him, confused, as he took a deep breath and backed a little further away from me, leaving my way to the door clear. He met my eyes, smiling a little, but the expression looked weirdly… sad. “I’m sorry, Astrid,” he said. “I wasn’t avoiding you because I was angry with you.”  
  
“But you were avoiding me,” I interrupted, wanting to make sure that I wasn’t completely off base about everything.  
  
“A little bit, yeah,” he said, sighing. “If you must know, I felt kind of guilty for upsetting you. And, ah…” He ran a hand through his hair, looking a little shamefaced. “It was made clear to me that maybe I’d been a bit more of an asshole to you this week than I’d really intended.”  
  
I frowned. “Made clear by who?” Who had he been talking to? Which one of my team mates thought I was too weak to cope with a little needling?  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Dennis said. “Point is, I thought I’d give you a little space while I figured out how to apologise without making things worse.” He sighed. “Clearly, that’s been a resounding success.”  
  
I stared at him, trying to process his words. Was he trying to say that he hadn’t been about to try to teach me a lesson? That he’d been waiting to…  
  
“That’s why you were hanging around here? You wanted to… apologise?”  
  
“Yeah, that was the plan.” He grinned ruefully. “But I couldn’t figure out how to start, and then Dean came in, and you asked me point blank why I was here, and…” He spread his hands. “What can I say? I’m not great at apologies. I bet you’re shocked, right?”  
  
“Not precisely,” I said. After a moment, I made my metal settle down, although I kept my defensive stance. Just in case. “So, you’re not going to… try to hurt me?”  
  
“No, I’m not,” he said, and he actually sounded like he meant it.  
  
“Why not?” I asked for the second time, more plaintively than I would have preferred; wanting to understand, but not quite being able to. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”  
  
“Because I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he quipped, smirking, but then he winced. “Sorry, bad habit. Just forget I said that, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” I said, after a moment.  
  
“Thanks,” he said, giving me a quick smile. He took a breath. “More seriously… Do you think you’re the first person who’s ever taken a swing at me for one bad joke too many?”  
  
“I think I would have done more than just take a swing at you if you hadn’t stopped me,” I muttered.  
  
“Well, I did stop you, so it’s kind of a moot point,” he said lightly. In a more serious tone, he continued: “But it’s not like you didn’t have cause. And… I’d say there were extenuating circumstances. Wouldn’t you?”  
  
I had to look away from the sympathy in his eyes, deeply uncomfortable at the reminder that he’d seen me… vulnerable. Weak. It almost made me want to hurt him on general principles, but I pushed the urge away.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” I said softly.  
  
“Of course it matters,” he said firmly. “But even if there hadn’t been, and even if I hadn’t stopped you, I don’t really believe in that eye for an eye bullshit. And I don’t tend to solve my problems through violence. That’s just not the kind of person I am.”  
  
I raised my eyes to his, trying unsuccessfully to keep my expression neutral.  
  
“It’s… the kind of person I am,” I admitted, feeling a queasy mixture of pride and shame at the thought. Mostly shame. “I was always taught that disrespect should be smacked down. Hard. And that if someone attacks you, you have to retaliate. No exceptions.”  
  
And if someone tries to kill you, then you fucking **end** them, I completed in my head. But even though I kept that last part unspoken, Dennis still gave me the weirdest fucking look.  
  
“That’s… not how we do things here in the Wards,” he said, after a few moments. “Well,” he added, pulling a face. “Except Shadow Stalker, maybe, but she’s definitely the exception. It’s certainly not how we’re supposed to do things.”  
  
“So… you don’t fight among yourselves at all?” I asked.  
  
“Not physically, no,” he said.  
  
I frowned. “But the others elbow you or clip you around the ear all the time.”  
  
“Occupational hazard,” he said, shrugging. “The price I pay for my art. But it’s not like they ever seriously try to punch my lights out or anything.”  
  
Not like I’d tried to do, he meant.  
  
Shit.  
  
Yet another rule I’d broken. Why didn’t anyone fucking **tell** me? If I didn’t know what the rules were, how could I be sure to obey them? My heart thudded in my chest, and I struggled to push away the ghastly, ghostly sensation of pressure on my throat. I had to swallow before I could speak.  
  
“Are you going to tell Carlos?” I asked softly, searching his face.  
  
“No, I wasn’t planning on it,” he said. He gave me a small smile. “Anyway, he’s more likely to be pissed off at me than you.”  
  
That… didn’t seem at all likely. Was he just trying to reassure me? Why? But I nodded like I took his words at face value.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Dennis looked at me seriously then, holding my gaze. “Like I said, I can understand why you took a swing at me on Tuesday. But don’t ever do anything like that to Chris or Missy. I mean it. I doubt either of them is ever going to make you as mad as I did, but even if somehow they do, you can’t lash out physically. One way or another, you could seriously hurt them. Do you understand?”  
  
Even though he’d said he wasn’t going to hurt me, his tone made me half expect him to hit me or grab me or shove me or something. Some kind of violence to emphasise how serious he was about this. When the violence didn’t come, though, my chest loosened enough that I could breathe again.  
  
“I understand,” I said. “And I’ll be careful.”  
  
I sincerely meant it, too. Regardless of what anyone might do to me in retaliation if I did lash out, I didn’t actually want to hurt them; either of them. Missy was so young, and Chris was so… nice. I could see why Dennis would mention them specifically, and his protectiveness of his more vulnerable team mates made me respect him a little more.  
  
“Good,” he said, nodding. He looked at me for a moment, and then, abruptly, smiled. “So, what do you say we try this again?”  
  
“What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.  
  
He took a couple of slow, careful steps towards me. I tensed a little, but all he did was speak. “I’m sorry I upset you and pissed you off.”  
  
I thought for a moment, and then sighed, making myself stand down.  
  
“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I tried to punch your lights out.”  
  
It felt… kind of weird to say that out loud. It was even weirder to think that he wasn’t going to retaliate for the attempt. Assuming he meant that. But I guessed time would tell. There was no point in pushing him now.  
  
“Okay,” he replied, his smile broadening. “So, how about we try starting over?” He slowly moved closer and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dennis. I’m kind of a smartass, and I sometimes run a joke all the way into the ground. But if you tell me when I’m actually making you uncomfortable, or seriously pissing you off, I’ll try to be better about toning it down.”  
  
I hesitated a moment, and then shook his hand, trying to ignore the small flare of uneasiness I felt at the contact. He actually had a pretty strong grip. Not uncomfortably so, but definitely not weak.  
  
(I tried to tell myself that the handshake wasn’t just an excuse to grab me, or twist my wrist, or whatever.)  
  
“Nice to meet you, Dennis,” I said. “I’m Astrid. I have a temper, and I sometimes respond with violence when I get upset or pissed off. But I’ll try to use my words before I get to that point.”  
  
We looked at each other for a moment. I… really wasn’t sure what was supposed to happen now. This was pretty far outside my experience. For me, reaching this kind of a… détente… had usually involved violence of some kind. Like with Shadow Stalker. The two of us had pissed each other off, fought, snarled at each other a bit and now, I fancied, had a kind of wary respect. And I understood that. But… Mutual apologies and a handshake? Not really something I was used to.  
  
On the plus side, at least my newly pristine skin got to stay unmarked for a little bit longer.  
  
Luckily Dennis spoke before the moment could get really fucking awkward.  
  
“I think this is what we call a bonding moment,” he fake-whispered.  
  
“I thought that was when I stuck your feet to the floor,” I replied, smiling, letting go of his hand with a certain amount of relief.  
  
“About that,” he said, his smile turning sly. “Something else you should know about me is that I’m also fond of pranks, practical jokes, that kind of thing. And that is one area in which I absolutely believe in retaliating in kind. So, fair warning: I am going to get you back for that little stunt.” He leaned in a little closer, and murmured. “Unless you don’t think you can handle it…?”  
  
Son of a **bitch** , I thought, not without a certain amount of amused admiration.  
  
“I can handle anything you can throw at me,” I said, meeting his gaze challengingly.  
  
His smile brightened.  
  
“I hoped you’d say that,” he said.  
  
And then he vanished.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” I told Dean and Carlos. “I got held up.” I very deliberately avoided looking at Dennis, who was practically radiating smugness from his position on the sofa.  
  
Bastard.  
  
I was definitely going to have my revenge. And I would definitely have to be more careful in future.  
  
(I tried not to think about how Dad would punish me for forgetting I was standing next to a fucking striker. For letting my guard down enough that he could freeze me.)  
  
(I tried not to think about how I’d been completely helpless. Not that anyone could have hurt me while I’d been frozen, but afterwards…)  
  
(I tried not to think that maybe I should tell Dennis his power freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t want him using it on me in future.)  
  
(But I’d told him I could handle anything he could throw at me, and I wasn’t going to make a liar of myself. There was no fucking way I was going to back down, or admit weakness.)  
  
For the moment, though, I focused my attention on Dean and Carlos, who were getting to their feet.  
  
“That’s okay,” Dean said. “We were happy enough out here, chatting.”  
  
Carlos just gave me a smile as he picked up some of the heavier boxes. Not for the first time, I wondered just how strong he really was.  
  
(Would he cause fractures if he hit me?)  
  
(I resisted the urge to press my hand to my ribs.)  
  
Dean and I also gathered up some of the miscellaneous bags and boxes. Much to my surprise, Dennis actually stirred himself to help as well. I guessed I didn’t have any objections. I led the little procession to my room and opened the door.  
  
“I’ll try to remember to have a lock put on that for you,” Carlos said.  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said.  
  
I didn’t mention that I’d been using my power to seal it. Anyway, I’d technically disobeyed him by doing that, since it involved using my power on the building. So… probably best keep that to myself. Anyway, I kind of liked the idea of having an actual lock on my door for the first time ever. Sure, I may not technically need it, but that wasn’t the point. Its presence sent a message. More than the sign on the door, it said that this was my room; and that people couldn’t just barge in without my permission.  
  
(I wondered if anyone ever searched the rooms for contraband or forbidden things the way Dad sometimes did.)  
  
(I wondered what kinds of things would even count as contraband here. Illegal shit, I guessed. But I’d already ditched my fake ID, and my knife was currently masquerading as a bracelet. I didn’t think I had anything else they might object to.)  
  
(Still, if I did need to hide anything, my power would make that much easier now.)  
  
“Where do you want these?” Carlos asked, looking around the room.  
  
I was peripherally aware of Dennis starting to say something, and then yelping as Dean clipped him around the ear. He gave Dean a very offended look. I tried to ignore their shenanigans.  
  
“Just stack them in that corner,” I decided. “Thank you, Sir.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment with the others.”  
  
“Everything else can go on the bed for now,” I told the Dennis and Dean, who seemed to have got whatever-it-was out of their systems for the moment. I set down the box I’d been carrying next to the others in the corner.  
  
(It was, I knew, stupid to resent my merely human strength, and yet I still did. Even if Carlos hadn’t been a brute, with the way he was built, he would still have been stronger than me. Just like Lance. Just like the men in Dad’s squad. No matter how fucking hard I worked, it was never going to be good enough. Dammit.)  
  
It didn’t take long to get everything squared away but then, it was the next step that was likely to be the tricky one: actually assembling the furniture.  
  
“Well, time for me to get ready for patrol,” Carlos said, stacking the last few boxes in the corner. He smiled at me. “I don’t envy you putting this lot together.”  
  
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Sir,” I said, smiling a little awkwardly back at him. “Thank you for your help.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
Stupid though it was, I couldn’t deny I breathed a little easier when he’d left.  
  
I turned to survey my room, figuring out a plan of action for putting together the furniture.  
  
“I’d offer to help, but I’m afraid I have to head off soon,” Dean said, sounding regretful.  
  
“That’s alright,” I told him, smiling a little. “You’ve already gone above and beyond, believe me.” Driving me around, carrying my stuff while I shopped — even though I’d told him he didn’t have to — bringing me and all my new things back here when we’d parted ways with Victoria and Amy. Not to mention unloading the car and helping to carry things to my room.  
  
“Hot date?” Dennis asked.  
  
“No,” Dean sighed. “Family thing.” I studied him, a little concerned at the way he slumped a little.  
  
“You don’t get on with your family?” I asked, before I could think better of it, my concern deepening.  
  
(I hadn’t noticed him having any visible bruises, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And it had only been a week, after all.)  
  
“It’s not that,” he said, smiling a little wryly. “Well, not really.” Okay, so that pretty much meant yes, at least partially. “It’s just… Society functions can get a bit much sometimes.”  
  
It was at times like this that the gulf between my background and that of my team mates was painfully apparent.  
  
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “I can’t say that I’ve ever been to a society function.” Fuck, I would stick out like a sore thumb in a place like that.  
  
“You’re not missing all that much,” Dean said.  
  
“Well, look on the bright side,” Dennis told him, clapping him on the back. “You’re not going to be here with us, trying to put together furniture.”  
  
I frowned. Was he offering to help?  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I can figure it out by myself.”  
  
“Nonsense,” he said, airily. “Friends don’t let friends assemble Ikea furniture alone. In fact, I’ll go and see if Chris wants to help as well. I’m sure between the three of us we’ll be done in no time!” Not giving me the chance to reply, he turned to Dean. “Dean, if I don’t see you before you go, hope your evening doesn’t suck too badly.”  
  
“You don’t have to-“ I started to say, finally managing to get my brain in gear, but he was already gone. I frowned after him, wondering if I should follow and tell him not to disturb Chris.  
  
“Think of it as a team-building exercise,” Dean said dryly. “If you can manage this without trying to kill each other, fighting a villain together will be child’s play.”  
  
“I’m sure it’s not going to be that bad,” I said, rolling my eyes.  
  
“Well, maybe not,” he admitted. “But it might still be a good idea.”  
  
“I don’t want to inconvenience anyone,” I said, feeling awkward. “And it’s not like I can’t do it myself.”  
  
“If Dennis saw it as an inconvenience, he wouldn’t have offered to help. And if Chris is caught up in his tinkering, no force on earth is going to turf him out of the workshop. So don’t worry about it.” He seemed to believe that. And I guessed he had a point about Dennis offering to help.  
  
“Fine,” I said, sighing.  
  
Dean studied me for a moment, and I tensed a little, wondering what was wrong.  
  
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.  
  
“Fine,” I said automatically. “Why do you ask?”  
  
He shrugged, and I suppressed a twitch at the movement.  
  
“You seem a little… on edge right now,” he said carefully. He paused a moment, as if considering his words. “You seem on edge around me.”  
  
Shit. I guessed I hadn’t done as good a job of hiding it as I’d hoped.  
  
“Seems like I’m pretty much always on edge these days,” I said lightly.  
  
Dean frowned, and I had a sinking feeling he wasn’t going to let this go.  
  
“Astrid, you can tell me if I’ve done something to upset you,” he said gently.  
  
I flushed and looked away, embarrassed at how ridiculous I was being. “You haven’t,” I replied.  
  
“Then will you tell me what the problem is?” he asked.  
  
I looked at him, about to say there wasn’t one, but then I hesitated. He was standing back, leaving the exit clear; not crowding me. Considerate as always. I owed him, I remembered. I couldn’t very well leave him thinking that he’d done something wrong.  
  
Even if it did feel like I was confessing to weakness.  
  
“It’s stupid,” I muttered. “And it’s my problem, not yours. But you haven’t done anything. It’s just…” I sighed, trying to get my thoughts in order. “I was taught to assess everyone I meet in terms of how much of a threat they are. It’s… automatic now. But you’ve generally managed to avoid registering as one.” I hoped he didn’t take that as an insult. I shrugged a little helplessly, searching for the words to explain what I meant. “You always give me space. You’re… still. You don’t make sudden movements. You don’t raise your voice. And you’ve never tried to touch me, not once.”  
  
(Even Chris had occasionally tried to tap me on the shoulder, or nudge me with his elbow, or something along those lines. He generally didn’t, and he was very apologetic when I gently reminded him to keep his distance, but he still sometimes forgot. It was a minor miracle that I hadn’t ended up accidentally smacking him yet.)  
  
(Maybe it would get easier, with time. Maybe.)  
  
Plus, Dean didn’t really hold himself like a fighter, I didn’t say. Which wasn’t to say that he couldn’t fight, but there was a difference between someone who could fight, and someone who was a fighter. It… was a pretty big difference.  
  
I hesitated, not quite sure how to phrase the next part.  
  
“And now I seem like a threat to you?” he asked softly. I nodded, feeling like a fool. “What changed?”  
  
“You act differently around Victoria, that’s all.” I said, simply. I didn’t really feel like qualifying that with details, so I just sighed, attempting a rueful smile. “I did say it was stupid.”  
  
Shit, he must think I was pathetic. An idiot. A pathetic idiot. I shouldn’t have said anything. But… he’d asked.  
  
And, like I’d said, I owed him.  
  
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, looking a little troubled.  
  
I shrugged. “I don’t think so. Anyway, why should you? It’s my problem, not yours. I’ll get over it. And… you don’t have to be so careful around me. Really. I’m not as fragile as you seem to think.”  
  
I tried unsuccessfully to shove aside the anger that flared up inside me at the idea of being thought weak. But the last thing I wanted was for any of my team mates to walk on eggshells around me. I wasn’t a fucking **victim** , dammit. They didn’t have to treat me like one.  
  
What the fuck did I have to do to make them respect me?  
  
“I don’t think you’re fragile,” Dean said, and I honestly couldn’t tell whether or not he meant that. He sounded like he did, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Even so, my anger subsided a little at his words. He sighed. “I just wish there was something I could do to reassure you.”  
  
This was starting to feel really fucking uncomfortable. I abruptly turned away, telling myself that it didn’t make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end not to be able to see where he was, and started checking the various boxes of flat pack furniture, figuring out what order I wanted to assemble them in.  
  
“There isn’t,” I said, addressing my words to the boxes, like that would make it any less awkward. “But don’t worry about it. Like I said, I’ll get over it. And it’s really not your fault.”  
  
I heard Dean move towards towards me a couple of steps, and then stop. He drew in an audible breath, but instead of speaking, he just let it out again in a sigh.  
  
“I should probably get going,” he said, after a moment.  
  
I turned to give him a small smile. “Hope you have a good time at your society function,” I said. “Or, at least, not a horrible one.”  
  
“Thanks,” he said, smiling back. “Hope the furniture assembly goes well.”  
  
“Thanks,” I echoed, and he took his leave.  
  
I just stood there for a moment, feeling really… Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling. Confused, more than anything. I just… I didn’t understand these people. I didn’t understand why Dean was being so nice to me. Or why Dennis hadn’t tried to hurt me for taking a swing at him. I didn’t understand how Chris could be so gentle and idealistic, and how no one had knocked that out of him yet. I didn’t understand why Carlos seemed to tolerate disrespect and informality from his team. I didn’t understand why they weren’t supposed to leave bruises when they sparred. And I didn’t understand why they weren’t supposed to fight outside the sparring mat, or why no one had told me about that particular rule.  
  
It seemed like there was a whole fuck of a lot I didn’t understand about the Wards.  
  
I wondered if I’d ever figure it out.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong way round,” Chris said, impatiently.  
  
“And I’m telling you it isn’t,” Dennis retorted.  
  
“Which of us has more experience in putting stuff together?”  
  
“Yeah, well, your powers aren’t going to help you here, tinker boy.”  
  
I rolled my eyes as they bickered, almost regretting my decision to let the two of them help. Leaving my half-assembled desk, I wandered over to pick up the instructions for putting together the dresser the boys were working on, comparing the pretty shitty illustration to what they’d put together so far.  
  
“Chris is right,” I said firmly. “It’s the wrong way round.”  
  
“Told you,” Chris said triumphantly, as they fixed the alignment of the offending dresser part. He gave me a shy smile, which I returned a little awkwardly and went back to putting my desk together.  
  
Dennis sighed dramatically. “Fine, whatever. There’s no need to be cocky about it.”  
  
“Because you never say I told you so, I suppose?” Chris scoffed.  
  
I shook my head, amused. “Do I need to separate you two?”  
  
“No, Ma’am,” Dennis replied, completely deadpan.  
  
I looked over and narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you mocking me?”  
  
“Just a little,” he said, grinning.  
  
I hesitated a moment, unsure how to respond, then settled for rolling my eyes. “Better count yourself lucky I’m not in command of you. Carlos must have the patience of a saint to put up with your nonsense.”  
  
“Yeah, but I’m worth it,” Dennis said, utterly brazen. He gave me a curious look. “Hey, New Girl, how old are you?”  
  
“Why?” I asked suspiciously, trying not to bristle about the fact that he was back to calling me New Girl again.  
  
“Just trying to figure out the line of succession,” he said.  
  
That made sense, I supposed. “I turned sixteen at the beginning of January.”  
  
“Okay,” he mused. “So, after Carlos, it’s me, then Dean, then you.”  
  
I went still for a moment. I… was expected to lead the Wards some day. I mean, I’d known that they went in age order, and that it would likely be my turn eventually. But it somehow made it more real hearing Dennis list the sequence.  
  
“Oh,” I said softly, trying to keep my disquiet from showing. Shit. What kind of a leader would I be? I mean, I knew what Dad wanted me to be, but… Fuck. How was I supposed to make them respect me? Would I be expected to…?  
  
“So. Just out of curiosity…” Dennis’ voice dragged me out of my increasingly panicked thoughts. I looked at him, trying to keep my expression neutral. “When I’m in charge, are you going to call me Sir?”  
  
Yes, probably, I thought, but didn’t say. Unless he ordered me not to. But… I really didn’t feel comfortable thinking about this right now.  
  
“Fuck off, Dennis,” I said. I aimed for a light tone but I wasn’t sure I quite hit the mark.  
  
“Well, that’s just rude,” he sniffed, but thankfully dropped the subject, returning his attention to the partially-assembled dresser.  
  
“So, if you just turned sixteen, you’re in the tenth grade, right?” Chris asked.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Me too,” he said. “So, uh, I guess we’ll probably be in some of the same classes at Arcadia. Assuming you’re transferring there, that is.”  
  
“I am,” I said. I tried not to pull a face. “Winslow’s a shithole. I’m glad to get out of there.”  
  
“Of course, you realise you probably won’t be able to sit together in class,” Dennis interjected. “Or hang out at lunch time, or whatever.”  
  
“What?” I looked up, startled. Did they have rules against fraternisation? I was honestly surprised, given how lax they seemed to be about other things. (But I was even more surprised at how disappointed I was. It was ridiculous, really. They were team mates. It wasn’t like I needed them to be friends as well. Any of them.) “We’re supposed to… avoid each other?”  
  
Fuck, had I broken a rule by spending time with Dean in our civilian identities? He hadn’t given any sign that it might be a problem, but then Victoria had been the one who’d invited me, and he’d already proved he had trouble saying no to his girlfriend.  
  
(I felt angry again, remembering that he’d told her about me without asking, but I tried not to think about it.)  
  
(I felt… weird again, remembering how Victoria’s smile had taken my breath away; how I’d been so… passive around her. I tried not to think about that either.)  
  
“Not avoid each other, per se,” Dennis said. “It’s not actually forbidden to socialise out of costume, but we are supposed to be careful about it. It’s to reduce the risk of someone connecting our civilian identities to our cape personas.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, feeling like a fool. “I guess that makes sense.”  
  
“I suppose,” Chris muttered, and I wasn’t sure, but I thought he might have looked disappointed.  
  
“Hey, Chris,” I said. “Can I ask you a favour?”  
  
“Anything,” he said, smiling.  
  
I raised my eyebrows. “You might want to be careful about promising anything,” I murmured, amused. “You don’t know what I’m going to ask for yet.”  
  
“Too late now,” Dennis said, smirking. “It’s a verbal contract, and I’m a witness.” He nudged Chris with his elbow. “Guess you’ll just have to give the lady whatever she wants.”  
  
Poor Chris looked mortified, turning pink all the way up to the tips of his ears.  
  
“Don’t be an asshole, Dennis,” I said, resisting the urge to smack him. Apparently, his protectiveness towards his team mates didn’t extend as far as protecting them from embarrassment. “But it’s not anything too onerous, Chris, I promise,” I said to him, smiling. “I just wondered if I could have a copy of your course syllabus and reading list for the semester. I don’t know exactly when I’m going to be transferring, and I’d like to have an idea of what to expect when I do.”  
  
“Um, sure,” he said, still seeming a little flustered. “I’ll try to remember to bring it in on Monday. Oh, wait, you’ve got your power evaluation on Monday, haven’t you. Although I guess I can always leave it here for you. Or just bring it in on Tuesday. Or-”  
  
“Whatever’s easiest for you,” I interrupted, because it looked like he was just going to keep rambling unless someone stopped him. I could sympathise with that. “Thanks, Chris.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said.  
  
“You know that’s not necessary, right?” Dennis said, giving me a strange look. “No one’s going to expect you to be completely up to speed right away.”  
  
“I like to be prepared,” I said, stiffly. “Anyway, the director said I’d be expected to keep my grades up. I’ve already missed two weeks of school, and fuck knows when the Arcadia transfer will go through. I really can’t afford to fall any further behind.”  
  
“I can understand that,” Chris said, seeming a little less discombobulated. He smiled at me. “You’re very focused.”  
  
“I try,” I said, feeling a little awkward.  
  
It was almost a relief when Dennis shook his head and said: “I don’t know, Astrid. Treating Carlos with respect, working out every day, studying all the time… Are you trying to make the rest of us look bad?”  
  
“I don’t think you need any help from me in that regard,” I said sweetly.  
  
“I’ll have you know that’s very hurtful,” he told me, with great dignity. “But I will be the bigger person and rise above it.” He gave me a look I couldn’t decipher. “Someone’s obviously feeling feisty today.”  
  
I eyed him warily.  
  
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Was it a criticism? Was he annoyed? Was he mocking me? I really wished I was better at this kind of shit.  
  
“It’s not a complaint, just an observation.” he said, shrugging easily. He grinned suddenly. “Anyway, it’s a good look on you.” I had no clue whatsoever how I was supposed to respond to that, but my cheeks heated anyway. I focused on the desk, hoping Dennis didn’t notice. I should have known I wouldn’t be that lucky. “And so is that,” he said, slyly. “In fact, it’s-“  
  
“Call me adorable one more time, and I’m going to fucking gag you,” I said tightly.  
  
“Hey, I am doing you a favour here, helping you put your furniture together,” he said, and I had to admit that he had a point.  
  
“That’s why you get a warning,” I told him. “And I didn’t actually ask for your help.” I stopped before I said or did something someone would regret, reminding myself that we were supposed to be starting over. And that I was supposed to be using my words. “Although I do appreciate it,” I made myself add. Even though I didn’t want to, I also forced myself to say: “I just don’t like being called adorable, or cute, or anything like that.”  
  
There was silence for a moment, and then Dennis said: “Okay, sorry. I didn’t realise it actually bothered you. I’ll stop.” He paused for a moment. “Uh, you may have to remind me occasionally, though. Preferably with words.”  
  
I felt… a little calmer, actually. A little less like I wanted to stomp over there and smack him.  
  
The fact that I actually felt clearheaded and no longer like I was about to keel over from exhaustion, probably helped a fuck of a lot with controlling my temper.  
  
(God, it seemed like forever since I’d actually felt this awake. Had it really only been a couple of weeks?)  
  
“I can do that,” I said, glancing over at him. I hesitated a moment, and then smirked. “Or, y’know, I could just gag you.”  
  
“I vote for gagging,” Chris said, earning himself a comically offended look from Dennis. I couldn’t help laughing a little.  
  
“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Dennis asked indignantly. “Turning my team mates against me?”  
  
I shrugged. “Little bit, yeah."  
  
He glowered at the pair of us and then, unexpectedly, smiled. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he said: “Well, I guess I’ll just have to have my revenge.”  
  
Banishing my unease, I reminded myself he was probably talking about pranks. He’d said he wasn’t going to hurt me.  
  
(If he really meant that. But even if he didn’t, it wasn’t like I couldn’t defend myself. As long as I could keep him from getting his hands on me. But I had ways to stop people getting in close.)  
  
I lifted my head and fixed him with a flat stare.  
  
“Like I said before, I can handle anything you can throw at me.” Even if his power did (freak me out) make me feel a little uneasy. “And don’t think I won’t retaliate.”  
  
“Oh, Astrid,” he said, slyly, smirking. “That’s half the fun.”  
  
“Don’t encourage him,” Chris said, sotto voce. “He can be pretty creative when he wants to be.”  
  
“So can I,” I said, refusing to look away, even though that damnable smirk was starting to make my cheeks burn.  
  
“Yes, well,” Chris muttered, looking from one of us to the other. “How about you both call a truce for today. Or at least until we’ve finished assembling the furniture.”  
  
“I suppose I can do that,” Dennis sighed.  
  
“Sure,” I said, a moment later.  
  
We all turned our attention back to the task at hand. I finished the desk and moved onto the chair.  
  
(I’d… actually spent a little bit more than I’d intended on it, but it was so much more comfortable than the others, and I was really fucking tired of uncomfortable seating. God knew there was enough of that in the PRT building. Anyway, this one had been on sale. So technically I’d actually saved money. Technically.)  
  
(No, fuck it. I refused to feel guilty about getting a decent chair. I was allowed to be comfortable in my own goddamned room.)  
  
(Even if I could hear Dad’s voice in my head sneering about me being soft.)  
  
“Astrid?” Chris said, after a little while.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I was just wondering… I mean, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, and I’m not trying to pry, but…” He seemed a little embarrassed. He took a breath, and then, all in a rush, asked: “Why don’t you like being called cute?”  
  
Because no one respected girls who were cute, I thought, but didn’t say. Because I wanted to be taken seriously. Because I didn’t want to be seen as soft, or weak, or helpless.  
  
(Because I’d heard the way Lance and his friends, and some of Dad’s men, talked about ‘cute’ girls.)  
  
Because it just made me feel really fucking uncomfortable.  
  
“I just don’t,” I said flatly. Luckily, he seemed to get the message, because he didn’t ask again.  
  
“You should talk to Missy about that,” Dennis said lightly. “She feels the same way.”  
  
“I remember,” I said, thinking back to when she’d complained about ‘old people’ fussing over her on the tours. But thinking of Missy reminded me of something that had been bothering me. I hadn’t seen much of her since Monday, but the few times we had interacted, she’d seemed a little… chilly. Certainly less friendly than she’d been on the Sunday and the Monday. I wondered if it was something I’d said or done. “Hey,” I said hesitantly. “Is she okay? She seemed a little… out of sorts this week. Not that I really know what she’s like normally.”  
  
“I haven’t noticed,” Chris said. “But then I haven’t really seen that much of her.”  
  
“You’re not wrong,” Dennis said, frowning. “Not sure why, though.” He shrugged. “Maybe Dean can get it out of her on Monday.”  
  
I was unsurprised that Dean seemed to be the team’s go-to guy for encouraging people to talk about their problems. He was pretty easy to talk to.  
  
That pretty much seemed to kill the conversation for a little while, but then out of nowhere, Chris asked:  
  
“You said your birthday wasn’t that long ago, right Astrid?”  
  
“That’s right,” I said.  
  
(Not that I knew exactly when my real birthday was. Dad had known it was in early January, but not the precise date, so he’d just picked one at random. The third. It was as good a date as any, I’d supposed.)  
  
“Did you do anything nice for it?” he asked, sounding like he was actually interested.  
  
I had to suppress a flinch.  
  
Somehow, I didn’t think being told it was time for me to kill someone was what Chris meant by ‘anything nice.’ I shrugged, focusing on the chair I was putting together.  
  
“No,” I said, but that sounded a little abrupt, so I explained: “We’ve never really celebrated birthdays in my house.”  
  
“What… not ever?” I wasn’t sure why Chris sounded so shocked. It wasn’t like Lance and I were the only kids I knew who didn’t have parties or presents or whatever. There were plenty of people who didn’t make a big fucking fuss over the fact that they’d survived another year.  
  
“It’s not that big a deal,” I muttered. “Anyway,” I continued, determinedly. “How are you getting on with the dresser?”  
  
In my peripheral vision, I could see Chris and Dennis exchanging a look, and I sighed quietly. Fucking great. Apparently that had been yet another reason for them to think I was weird. Maybe I should just keep my stupid mouth shut in future.  
  
“We’re almost done, actually,” Chris said, after a moment.  
  
At the same time, Dennis asked: “Hey, how come you’ve finished with the desk already?”  
  
“Maybe because I haven’t been getting distracted all the time?” I said, smiling to take any sting out of my words. It… hadn’t exactly been unpleasant listening to the two of them chatter while they worked. Even though it had slowed them down. “And I’m cheating.”  
  
“What?” Dennis sounded indignant. “What do you mean?”  
  
“My power,” I said, my smile broadening at the disgusted look he shot me. “It really helps with lining the parts up correctly and holding them together.”  
  
“So, wait… If you can use your power to stick the parts together, why the hell are we fiddling around with these stupid little screws and things?” It really was quite amusing how indignant he looked.  
  
“Because it makes the whole structure stronger if we actually use those fiddly little screws. Plus, I don’t know if my power’s going to wear off, and I’d just as soon my furniture didn’t fall apart on me, thank you very much.”  
  
“Has it ever worn off at all?” Chris asked, looking interested.  
  
“Not so far,” I said. “But better safe than sorry, right?”  
  
“Personally, I think you just want us to suffer,” Dennis grumbled.  
  
“You, maybe,” I said, grinning. “But Chris hasn’t done anything to offend me.”  
  
“Must be your winning personality, Dennis,” Chris said, grinning.  
  
I grinned to myself as the two of them continued to bicker amiably, a little surprised to realise that this was actually kind of fun. Maybe it was a good thing I’d taken Dean’s advice and accepted their help. I did feel vaguely guilty as I thought about all the studying I’d meant to do today and hadn’t gotten around to, but I should have time do some when we’d finished here. Anyway, I did need to put my furniture together, and it would be quicker with help.  
  
My musing was interrupted by pangs of hunger. Again. I sighed. Fuck. Amy really hadn’t been kidding about the increased appetite. I forced myself to finish off the chair and then stood up.  
  
“I’m going to get something to eat,” I said glancing at the others. “Do either of you want anything?” The thought of leaving them alone in my room made me feel a little bit antsy, but I would cope.  
  
“Why don’t you help us finish this off, and then we can all take a quick break?” Dennis said. I almost protested but, well, they were helping me out. I didn’t really feel like I could dictate terms. Anyway, technically I was taking a break, so it hardly seemed fair to tell them they couldn’t.  
  
Anyway, this way I wouldn’t have to leave them alone in my room.  
  
“Sure."

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“You sure that sandwich is packed enough?” Dennis asked me, sounding amused. “You don’t want to maybe add more stuff?”  
  
“No, I’m good,” I said tightly, feeling really fucking self-conscious as he and Chris watched me put the last slice of bread on top and cut it in half. Much though I wanted to devour it right then and there, I made myself clear everything away and wash the knives first.  
  
Shit, I was so hungry right now. I really hoped this increased appetite did only last until tomorrow. What if Amy had made a mistake? What if it was going to continue? I wasn’t sure I could cope with that. I really fucking hated being hungry. I thought I’d rather take a beating that be forced to go without meals, and despite the fact that I’d already eaten a truly ridiculous amount of food today, right now it felt like I hadn’t had anything at all.  
  
But there was no point in worrying about that now. I guessed I’d just have to wait and see how I felt tomorrow.  
  
After a hopefully dreamless, restful night’s sleep.  
  
“Hey, if you don’t want this after all, I’m sure I can help you out with it…” Dennis said teasingly. I whirled around to see him slowly stretching out a hand towards my sandwich, and I quickly reached across the table to snatch the plate away, glaring daggers at him.  
  
“Keep your fucking hands to yourself, Dennis,” I damn near growled. “Get your own goddamn sandwich. This one is **mine**.”  
  
“Whoah there,” he said, looking a little startled and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was just messing around. I wasn’t really going to take it.”  
  
“Good,” I said tightly. On the one hand, I was feeling really fucking embarrassed about the ridiculous way I was acting. On the other hand, time spent worrying about that was time not spent eating. So, after sending one final warning glare in his direction, I focused on what was truly important: my sandwich. Well, for as long as it lasted, anyway, which honestly wasn’t that long. But it hit the spot and, importantly, it got rid of that awful, gnawing, empty sensation in my stomach. That sandwich might just have been the best thing I’d ever tasted. Sighing in satisfaction, I picked up my plate to rinse it off. Belatedly, I realised that Dennis and Chris were both staring at me. “What?” I asked, self-consciously.  
  
“You were really hungry,” Chris murmured, at the same time as Dennis asked:  
  
“Haven’t you eaten today or something?”  
  
I shrugged. “Side-effect of Amy healing me,” I said, flushing a little. “Apparently it’s going to last for a day or so. She said if I didn’t eat, my body would start breaking down muscle tissue, and I haven’t worked so fucking hard all this time building up my strength and fitness just to undo it all in a day.”  
  
It didn’t even bear thinking about.  
  
“I can understand that,” Chris said, flushing a little. He seemed to be looking at my arms.  
  
I stuck the clean plate in the drying rack and retrieved a banana and an apple. I was a little surprised Dennis hadn’t taken he opportunity to make some snarky remark or other, but when I glanced over in his direction he was looking almost… worried?  
  
“If the healing took enough out of you that Panacea needed to increase your appetite for a day, you must have been pretty badly hurt,” he said seriously.  
  
I turned away, and busied myself with the coffee machine.  
  
“Either of you want a coffee?” I asked. They both demurred, so I set about making a cup for myself. I might not have needed the caffeine boost right now, but I just fancied a cup of coffee.  
  
“How bad was it?” Chris asked softly.  
  
I opened my mouth to say that it wasn’t that bad, that it was just surface damage, that it wasn’t anything worth worrying about. But then I remembered the way Amy had described my injuries in that clinical, dispassionate voice, and just I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” I said tightly. “It’s all fixed now. That’s the important thing.”  
  
I was feeling rattled enough that I used my power to divest the banana of its skin, which I then disintegrated. It helped a little. I was still pretty fucking pissed off at myself for not keeping it together, though. I just hoped I hadn’t made too much of a fool of myself.  
  
(The banana also tasted damn good, as did the apple, even if neither of them quite matched up to the sandwich.)  
  
I was relieved when Chris and Dennis started chatting amongst themselves. God knew I was not feeling particularly conversational right now.  
  
Fucking **fractures**.  
  
I just… I was having trouble getting my head around it.  
  
It felt weird, knowing I’d been carrying around all that damage and I hadn’t had a fucking clue. Like my own body had betrayed me.  
  
It was also…  
  
Had Dad known? Had he realised that it wasn’t just bruises he left when he hit me? I couldn’t believe he would’ve done that to me on purpose, but I just didn’t know any more.  
  
And what about Lance? Was his body ‘riddled with micro-fractures’ too? Should I try to get word to him; tell him to go to a doctor and get checked out? Would a doctor even realise, though?  
  
(Fuck. I hoped Dad hadn’t hurt him too badly when he’d realised that I’d run. I just hadn’t thought about it at the time, but, well… It wouldn’t exactly be the first time that Dad had punished one of us for something the other one had done, and I knew he would’ve wanted to punish someone.)  
  
Anyway, Lance and Dad would undoubtedly have ditched their phones by now. That was SOP if there was a risk of our identities being compromised, and I’d compromised us all pretty fucking effectively. They only way we could have been compromised further would have been if I’d told the PRT who we all really were.  
  
(I briefly contemplated how Dad was going to discipline me for my actions if he ever got hold of me again. The thought made me feel slightly sick.)  
  
No, the phones were long gone, and so were Lance and Dad. They had to be. I was actually a little surprised Mr Reid hadn’t gotten in touch with me when the CPS home visit never happened. Assuming it hadn’t. Assuming that Dad and Lance hadn’t stuck around for it. I figured that was a pretty safe assumption to make, though. Maybe he was just going to fill me in after Monday’s scheduled hearing about the emergency removal order. I wondered how that would be affected by Dad not showing up. Hopefully it would make things go smoother, but it would undoubtedly raise some questions.  
  
Shit. What was I going to say if the PRT asked me point blank why Dad might have run? Should I claim ignorance? Or maybe I should suggest he was involved in some petty criminal activity and probably hadn’t wanted to get entangled with the legal system? That was technically true, if a little bit of an understatement. But then… would they punish me for not saying anything about that before now? I guessed I’d understand it if they did.  
  
(What would they do to me if the whole truth ever came out?)  
  
Anyway, I didn’t want to think about this right now. I had a very specific plan for how the rest of the day should go. I just wanted to have my coffee, put the rest of my furniture together, have some dinner, do some coursework, hit the gym and go to bed.  
  
Nice, simple, and straightforward.  
  
I wasn’t going to ask what could go wrong with that, though.  
  
I’d learned better.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“And… I think we’re done,” I said, sending a quick burst of power through the wardrobe to reinforce it. (The fact that it made it feel more like it was really mine was just a happy coincidence.) I smiled at Chris, and even at Dennis. “Thank you both for your help. I really appreciate it.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Chris said, smiling back.  
  
“No problem,” Dennis said, looking around the room. “It certainly looks a lot more homey in here now.”  
  
“I guess,” I said. It was kind of nice having furniture apart from the bed and laundry hamper, I supposed. This place still felt like just somewhere I was staying, rather than my home, but I’d only been here a week.  
  
(I’d never really had problems settling into a new place before, but then I’d always had my family with me. Now I was on my own. Well, I guessed I did have a gang. No, not gang, team. I had to remember to use the right words. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same at all.)  
  
(Was it stupid of me to miss my family? Even though they’d both done awful, terrible things, even though they’d both hurt me over and over again, even though I hated them… I also loved them. And I thought they loved me, in their own way. Well, I wasn’t entirely certain about Lance. Not that it mattered whether he did or didn’t: he was still my brother, with all that entailed. But Dad cared for me, I knew.)  
  
(Even though he’d given me fractures.)  
  
(Was it stupid that I missed him, even so?)  
  
(Even though he was going to fucking break me if he ever got his hands on me again.)  
  
(I was so fucking confused right now.)  
  
I shook myself out of my thoughts and went over to have a look through the bags on my bed.  
  
“Do you want a hand putting those away?” Chris asked.  
  
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “They’re just clothes. It won’t take me long.”  
  
“Plus, I doubt Astrid really wants you pawing through her unmentionables,” Dennis said, smirking. Because of course he fucking did.  
  
“Sorry,” Chris practically yelped, turning a shade of red that would have put a fire hydrant to shame. “I didn’t think. I wasn’t-“  
  
“It’s fine,” I told him, embarrassed more on his behalf on my own. They were just fucking clothes, after all. It wasn’t a big deal. “I know you were only trying to help.” I smiled at him, and then turned to glare at Dennis. “You are such an asshole.”  
  
“Yeah, but Chris knows I’m only messing around,” he said cheerfully, and he actually ruffled Chris’ hair. I vaguely hoped that Chris might put some of the holds and locks I’d taught him to good use, but all he did was flail uselessly and complain.  
  
“Remind me to teach you some more pressure point stuff,” I told Chris. “And some throws.” I hesitated a moment. “Assuming you still want those lessons.”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Yes,” he said. “Please. If it’s no trouble.”  
  
“It’s no trouble at all,” I said, smiling a little awkwardly. “Just remember what I said: I’ve never really taught anyone before, so I, uh, I guess it’s going to be a learning experience for both of us.”  
  
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said, smoothing down his ruffled hair and smiling back at me.  
  
“Oh, get a room, kids,” Dennis drawled, rolling his eyes.  
  
I froze, my face feeling like it was on fire. Chris spluttered and glared at Dennis, shoving him lightly.  
  
“Don’t be a dick,” he said.  
  
“So much for starting over,” I said tightly, keeping myself still through sheer force of will.  
  
Dennis glanced at me, and his expression went from amused to uncertain. “Ah, too much?” he said.  
  
“Too much,” I agreed, glaring at him.  
  
“Duly noted,” he said. “Sorry.”  
  
“Fine,” I said, after a moment. I made myself stand down. “So, I guess this whole ‘not being as much of an asshole as before’ thing is still a work in progress, huh?”  
  
“I guess so,” he said, grinning ruefully. “But — unlike Chris here, I will note — at least you didn’t take a swing at me. So… progress on the whole using your words thing, huh?”  
  
“Guess so,” I said.  
  
There was a seemingly interminable moment when the three of us stood around staring awkwardly at each other. I searched for something to say and, much to my surprise actually found something.  
  
“So,” I said, striving for a casual tone. “As a thank you for helping me put my furniture together, I was thinking of cooking dinner?” (I really hadn’t intended to make that a question. Fuck. Was I nervous? That was ridiculous.) “If you want, I mean. I was going to make fancy mac and cheese.” I glanced between them. “What do you think?”  
  
“I never say no to free food,” Dennis pronounced cheerfully. “Count me in!”  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Chris said, smiling. “I mean, I didn’t mind helping.” He shot Dennis a surprisingly stern look. “We didn’t mind helping.”  
  
“Of course we didn’t,” Dennis agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. “But, since you’re offering, and if it’s no trouble…”  
  
“I was going to cook it anyway,” I said. “So making a little more isn’t exactly a chore.”  
  
“Then, okay,” Chris said. “Thanks, Astrid.”  
  
“Well, maybe wait to thank me until after you’ve tasted it,” I muttered.  
  
“So, just out of curiosity,” Dennis said. “What exactly is going to make this mac and cheese so fancy?”  
  
“I guess you’ll find out,” I replied, grinning. I was looking forward to this. I really did like cooking. “Oh, quick question: are either of you vegetarian?”  
  
“No,” Chris said.  
  
“Definitely not,” Dennis said.  
  
“Good.” I nodded. “Right. I’m going to put my clothes away, and then I’ll start on dinner. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”  
  
“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Dennis said. “Unless you want a hand with the cooking?”  
  
“No, I’m good,” I said cheerfully.  
  
“Cool. Then my conscience is assuaged.” He slung his arm around Chris’ shoulders. “Come on then, let’s leave the lady to it.” He waved to me as he steered Chris out of the door. “See you in a bit.”  
  
“See you,” I said absently, my thoughts already turning towards ingredients and cooking times. I was a little surprised that Dennis actually closed the door behind himself and Chris, but then this wasn’t the first time he’d surprised me today.  
  
It suddenly hit me, all over again, just how fucking surreal all of this was. Me, a Ward. Me, hanging out with the Dallon sisters.  
  
How the fuck was this my life?  
  
I felt wobbly all of a sudden, and had to sink down into my new chair. It… actually was comfortable, I was distantly pleased to note. I guessed it probably helped that I was no longer damaged. Injured. Whatever.  
  
My heart was racing, and it felt hard to breathe; like the walls were closing in around me. (It felt like a hand wrapped around my throat.) It was too hot, or maybe too cold. My hands were shaking and I couldn’t make them stop.  
  
I had to pull myself together. I had to. I couldn’t afford to be weak. Now, more than ever, I had to be strong.  
  
I’d already fucked up so many times, made people curious about me; made them suspicious, maybe. I couldn’t keep doing that. I had to be careful. I had to be better.  
  
I let my power free, sending it surging through my room, the HQ, the whole building; tracing out structures and pathways that were starting to feel… familiar. Comfortable. That gave me the strength to get to my feet; to take deep, even breaths, rather than the frantic panting my body wanted. I wandered my room, touching things, sending my power through them.  
  
It was…  
  
I had a feeling of déjà vu, thinking back to the day I ran, but this wasn’t like that, not really. I wasn’t destroying things, I was just… changing them a little. Shaping them in small, subtle ways. And I deliberately limited myself to malleable substances like metal, glass and plastic. I **wasn’t** going to break anything, no matter how fucking good I knew it would feel.  
  
(I was in control here, not my power. No matter how it sometimes felt.)  
  
I just wanted to… to claim them. To remind myself that this room, and these things, were mine.  
  
(Even if things could always be taken away from you, and places could always be left behind.)  
  
That this was my home — my life — now, no matter how weird that felt.  
  
Okay. Okay, that was better. I felt better.  
  
I mean, I felt fucking embarrassed at that little fit of whatever-it-was, but it seemed to be over now, thank fuck. It was fine. I was fine. I would be fine.  
  
Right. I would finish putting my stuff away, and then I would make dinner.  
  
That was something to look forward to, at least.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I had what must have been a truly ridiculous grin on my face as I touched the block of Gruyere cheese and watched it collapse into a heap of thin strips. So, maybe it was lazy to use my power rather than grating the cheese the old-fashioned way, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t needed to use a knife to slice up the mushrooms, onions or bacon either. I hadn’t really considered using my power in cooking before, but this rocked on toast.  
  
(Jesus, I was up and down today. I really needed to get this under control.)  
  
“Astrid.”  
  
Only my long practice at keeping my reactions under control stopped me from jumping half out of my skin as the sound of my name. Fuck, I hadn’t even heard footsteps. Given who it was, though, I supposed that shouldn’t really come as a surprise.  
  
“Shadow Stalker,” I said cautiously, glancing over my shoulder as I shredded the block of Fontina cheese. (It wasn’t like I actually needed to look at it to use my power on it, after all.) I was a little surprised to see her away from the console, but I guessed she must have taken her break a little early.  
  
She came into the kitchen and went to the fridge. I kept her in my peripheral vision as I shredded the rest of the cheeses and checked on the macaroni. It was coming along nicely, so I started on the sauce — turned out that my power made cracking eggs much easier, too. Shadow Stalker loosened the lid on the tupperware container she’d retrieved from the fridge and put it into the microwave. She then leaned against the countertop and watched me whisk together the components for the sauce. At least, I thought she was watching me. The mask made it really fucking hard to tell.  
  
I half-wondered if she’d mention the fact that I was no longer covered in bruises, but she just pulled out her phone and started fiddling with it. Well, that was fine with me. (The last thing I wanted to do was chat about fucking fractures.) I focused on my cooking and she focused on her phone. It was the kind of social interaction I could handle.  
  
The microwave pinged, and Shadow Stalker retrieved a spoon from the drawer, stirred her dinner and put it back in the microwave. I tried not to twitch when she set the dirty spoon down on the clean counter top.  
  
“Looks like E88 is starting shit with the ABB,” she said, apropos of nothing, distracting me from the spoon.  
  
I turned to face her, frowning. “Coil, the Merchants, and now the ABB? All in the same week? Seems pretty fucking stupid to fight a war on three fronts.”  
  
Shadow Stalker shrugged expressively. “They’re nazis,” she drawled. “What’d you expect?”  
  
Not this. It wasn’t that the Empire and the ABB hadn’t clashed before but, as far as I knew, neither gang had made any significant moves against the other for a little while. Why would Kaiser kick that particular dragon’s nest right now?  
  
Assuming, of course, that it really was Kaiser behind this.  
  
I really wanted to press Shadow Stalker for more details, but I couldn’t afford to sound too interested in the fucking Empire. So, instead, I asked:  
  
“Are Aegis and Vista getting involved in the fracas?”  
  
And shouldn’t Shadow Stalker be manning the console in that case?  
  
She snorted. “You really are new,” she said scornfully. I took that as a no. “The munchkin threw a shitfit about being kept away from the action, so Aegis put her in time out.”  
  
I assumed she was talking about Vista. But, despite her age, I really couldn’t imagine Vista acting in a way that could be described as throwing ‘a shitfit,’ especially not in the field. She seemed far too professional for that. Perhaps Shadow Stalker was exaggerating for effect. Maybe I could talk to Vista about it later.  
  
(I wondered if Aegis would discipline her for disagreeing with a command decision in the field. Or, depending on how she’d spoken to him, for disrespect. The thought that he might hurt her made me feel… weird. I really didn’t like it.)  
  
Shadow Stalker poured herself a glass of orange juice and grabbed an apple, which she shoved in the pocket of her coat. When the microwave pinged, she retrieved her food and spoon and headed for the door.  
  
“Want to spar later?” I called out. I was actually looking forward to being able to fight at full capacity. Sure, Wednesday’s non-powered rematch had gone more in my favour, but I knew I could do better. I wanted to do better.  
  
Shadow Stalker paused in the doorway.  
  
“Can’t tonight. Tomorrow.”  
  
It wasn’t a question. I rolled my eyes.  
  
“Sure. You going to give me a time?”  
  
“Not sure when I’ll be free,” she said. Her tone slyly amused, she added: “Anyway, it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”  
  
I couldn’t help bristling a little at that, but I made myself give her a sharp smile. “You really don’t like being pinned down, do you?” I murmured.  
  
She went still for a moment, and my smile broadened of its own accord. Yeah, that had definitely been a hit. Turned out that the bitch wasn’t so slippery when she couldn’t phase, and she really hadn’t seemed to appreciate being the one getting her head bounced off the ground.  
  
(Even if I hadn’t been nearly as rough with her as she’d been with me on Monday.)  
  
I was pretty damn sure she was going to do her level best to make me pay for that, but that was half the fun. Shadow Stalker, at least, didn’t treat me like I was made of fucking glass.  
  
“Tomorrow,” she said, her voice hard.  
  
“Tomorrow,” I replied, keeping my smile.  
  
Shadow Stalker left without another word.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Hey, this is pretty good,” Dennis said, raising his eyebrows at me over his bowl of mac and cheese.  
  
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” I said wryly, but I was pleased nonetheless.  
  
“It is good,” Chris said, smiling.  
  
“I’m glad you both like it,” I said.  
  
I was pretty pleased with how it had turned out, if I did say so myself. And, as far as I was concerned, that brief exchange of words had fulfilled any social obligations I might have as far as dinnertime conversation. I was now free to concentrate on my food. Because, yet again, I was really fucking hungry. I barely had attention to spare for the movie currently playing up on the big screen, let alone actually talking. Luckily, the movie didn’t exactly require a whole lot of brainpower — it was some cheesy popcorn flick about a bunch of capes getting abducted by aliens and having to work together to save both themselves and planet earth.  
  
As with the sandwich earlier, I ended up pretty much inhaling my bowl of mac and cheese. And I was still hungry afterwards. I made myself wait a few minutes, to see if it was just taking a little while for my dinner to hit the spot, but it didn’t get better. Luckily, I’d made plenty.  
  
“I’m going to get more mac and cheese. Do either of you want any more?” I asked.  
  
“I’m okay, thanks,” Chris said.  
  
Dennis paused the film, shaking his head. “I haven’t even finished my first bowl yet,” he said, sounding amused. “That’s quite the appetite you have there, Astrid.”  
  
“I told you,” I said, with some irritation. “It’s a side-effect of the healing.” I sighed, getting to my feet and picking up my empty bowl. “And I really can’t wait for it to be over.”  
  
“It’s only until tomorrow,” Dennis said, with a surprising amount of sympathy. Of course, he then spoiled it by grinning and adding: “Look at this as an opportunity to indulge!”  
  
I gave him a half-hearted glower. “I’ll be back shortly.”  
  
As well as a second helping of dinner, I also took a detour to my room to grab my lab book and my notes on the Wards courses, figuring I might as well at least try to get something useful done. (I was starting to feel guilty about wasting so much of the day.)  
  
When I got back to the Hub, Dennis and Chris were discussing — that is to say, arguing about — how the powers of the various cape characters in the movie should be rated.  
  
“Okay,” I said, settling back into my seat. “You can hit play if you want to.” I grinned. “Or you could argue some more. It’s all good.”  
  
“Why not both?” Dennis said, shrugging. He hit play, and we all settled in to watch.  
  
The second bowl of mac and cheese seemed to deal with my remaining hunger pangs quite nicely. As for the movie… Well, the special effects were pretty good, I had to admit. They’d either had a decent budget, or someone on set was actually a cape. The plot… eh. Holes big enough to fit an Endbringer through. Still, it was amusing enough, I guessed. The actors certainly seemed to be having fun with their roles. And, much to my surprise, the fight scenes weren’t actually too awful.  
  
Okay, on balance, I guessed the movie was actually quite entertaining. And… I may have ended up getting drawn into it despite myself.  
  
As the credits rolled, I looked down at my notes and sighed. Fuck. I’d barely done any work at all. And, if I was honest, my exhaustion this morning meant I could probably write off much of what I’d done then, as well.  
  
Dammit!  
  
(I tried to push aside the vague — okay, not so vague — feelings of anxiety about having slacked off so much today.)  
  
Okay, I’d just have to make a concerted effort to get something useful done. There was still enough time before bed, as long as I didn’t waste too much of it.  
  
“What did you think of the movie, Astrid?” Chris asked.  
  
I opened my mouth to tell him I’d liked it, but ended up yawning widely instead. I clapped a hand over my mouth, flushing with embarrassment.  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered.  
  
“That good, huh?” Dennis said, sounding amused.  
  
“No, I enjoyed it,” I hurried to say, not wanting to sound unappreciative. “I mean, it was dumb as fuck, but it looked awesome, and it was surprisingly funny in places. I really liked-“ Another yawn swallowed up the rest of my words. I started to wonder how the fuck I got so tired all of a sudden, but then I figured it out. “Fuck,” I muttered, in between yawns. “I think Amy’s tweaks are wearing off.”  
  
“Tweaks?” Chris asked, raising his eyebrows curiously.  
  
“To help me feel more alert today,” I explained. I shook my head in a vain attempt to try to clear it. It didn’t really help. It was like all the exhaustion of the past couple of weeks was catching up with me all at once. I supposed that wasn’t exactly an inapt description. “Goddammit,” I mumbled, feeling slightly panicked. “I was going to try to get some work done.”  
  
“Why don’t you just go to bed?” Chris said, giving me what I thought was probably a worried look.  
  
“I need to clear up the bowls and stuff. And put the remaining mac and cheese in the freezer,” I said, wondering if I was slurring my words as badly as it felt I was.  
  
(Fuck. How could I defend myself like this? How could I fight?)  
  
“We can do that,” Dennis said, startling me.  
  
“Yeah,” Chris agreed, nodding with more enthusiasm than I really thought was warranted. He smiled at me. “You made dinner, after all. It’s only fair that we should clear up.”  
  
“But…” I started, intending to say that dinner was meant as a thank you and it hardly seemed fair to make them clear up. If I could only find the words.  
  
“Go to bed, Astrid,” Dennis said firmly, but not unkindly. “You’re practically asleep on your feet right now, and I really don’t think you want us to have to carry you to your room.”  
  
“No,” I said, a sudden flare of adrenaline cutting through the dense fog of exhaustion, at least briefly. “Thanks for clearing up. And for helping me put my furniture together.” They said something in reply, but I was yawning too loudly to hear it. “I think I’m going to go to bed now,” I muttered.  
  
“Good idea,” Dennis said dryly. I would have glared at him, but I simply couldn’t muster the energy right now.  
  
“Good night, Astrid,” Chris said. He looked worried for some reason, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that right now.  
  
“Night,” I said, and trudged off.  
  
I thought I heard Vista’s voice out in the Hub as I opened the door to my room. She sounded… angry. I hesitated for a moment but I knew I was in no fit state to ask her questions right now. Maybe I could talk to her tomorrow. Anyway, it sounded like she was talking to Aegis and I really didn’t want to interrupt.  
  
(I suppressed a shudder at the thought of being around him in my current state. Not that it would make that much fucking difference.)  
  
(Not that I could do much of anything to him even if I was fully awake.)  
  
(Not that I’d ever be anything but helpless against a brute like him.)  
  
I double-checked that my bedroom door was sealed and got ready for bed. As my head hit the pillow and the darkness rushed in to claim me, I managed to muster the energy for one last thought.  
  
Really, it was more of a prayer.  
  
Please let there be no nightmares.  
  
**Please.**


	30. Aphenphosmphobia 3.03

If there were nightmares last night, I thankfully didn’t remember them. (At least not beyond some vague feelings of distress than were easy to banish as I surfaced from the depths of slumber.) For the first time in what felt like forever, I woke feeling rested and refreshed. It felt… good. It felt really good. And, despite my fears to the contrary, nothing hurt. Still. There was no pain at all, in fact; not even the miscellaneous aches and twinges that I’d just come to accept as part of my body’s usual background noise.  
  
I remembered the way Amy had sounded so certain when she’d said that pain wasn’t normal; that it was a sign of something awry. Could that really be right?  
  
(Was this… Was this what it was like for other people? People who didn’t fuck up as much as me? People who didn’t have to be disciplined the way I did? People who didn’t train and fight and push themselves like I had to?)  
  
Dad said… He said that suffering brought strength. He said that by pushing me to my limits and beyond, he was making me stronger, tougher; better able to endure whatever life threw at me. And I… I believed him. At least, I believed that was his intention. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me for no reason. He was only doing what he thought was best. And I did believe that enduring pain — that surviving — was a form of strength.  
  
But…  
  
But Amy had said…  
  
It had been while Dean and Victoria had been making their goodbyes. Enthusiastically. Amy and I had decided to give them a little space. (It was that or look for a bucket of cold water to throw at them but, honestly, I wasn’t sure even that would have distracted them. The two of them had been very… focused on each other.) Anyway, apropos of nothing, Amy had off-handedly told me that she hadn’t just healed my new injuries: she’d fixed all the old damage as well. Micro-fractures and all. I hadn’t known what to say to that. I thought I’d managed to stutter out some sort of thanks, but God only knew how much sense I’d made.  
  
But then she’d said… She’d said that if she hadn’t fixed it, the micro-fractures would have made my bones more likely to not just fracture again in future but also outright break. Especially if I kept getting hit. She’d said that I would’ve likely developed osteoarthritis by the time I was in my thirties. She’d said some other things too, all of it in a careless, almost bored tone. Like she was talking about nothing more consequential than the weather. Maybe she was exaggerating, but somehow… somehow I didn’t think so.  
  
And that meant…  
  
It meant…  
  
In that respect, at least, Dad hadn’t made me stronger. He’d made me weaker.  
  
It was an uncomfortable thought.  
  
And it wasn’t one I really felt up to processing right now, so I put it aside as best as I could.  
  
It helped that I felt really fucking hungry, which made it kind of hard to think about anything else. I wasn’t sure if the hunger was just my normal appetite or if it was still a holdover from yesterday. Ordinarily, I would have hit the gym and then had breakfast but, just on the off-chance it was a lingering side-effect of the healing, I decided to break my usual routine to eat something right away.  
  
Tempting though it was to go for a cooked breakfast, I contented myself with fruit and cereal. That was enough to take the edge off, if not to vanquish the hunger completely. I spent a little time studying to give it the chance to settle, and then I hit the gym.  
  
It was fucking amazing to be able to properly push myself without pain, and without having to worry about aggravating some injury or other. It felt pretty damn awesome.  
  
(Even though I was half-expecting it to wear off at any moment.)  
  
I thought…  
  
I thought I could maybe get used to this.  
  
(I wondered if that made me weak.)

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Once I finished my basic routine — plus a little extra, just because I could — I found myself contemplating the climbing wall. I’d been tempted to try it out before, but hadn’t wanted to risk it with my bad wrist. Now I was functional again, though, there was nothing stopping me. As I was checking the ropes _(nylon)_ and safety harnesses, the sound of footsteps drew my attention. I looked up to see Missy striding purposefully through the gym. I nodded at her as she drew near.  
  
“Good morning,” I said, a little surprised at how cheerful I sounded. I supposed I was in a pretty good mood, all things considered. (It was amazing how much of a difference a good night’s sleep and the absence of pain could make.)  
  
“Morning,” she replied, her tone a little brusque. Seemingly not in the mood for conversation, she headed over towards the fitness equipment and began her own workout routine. I returned my attention to the climbing wall, feeling a thrill of anticipation. I’d always enjoyed climbing, but aside from scaling the odd wall here and there during some of my late night walks, I hadn’t really had the chance to do it properly for a while.  
  
This was going to be fun!

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Do you want to spar?”  
  
Missy’s question took me a little by surprise. I glanced down to see her gazing up at me with an expression that could only be described as challenging. I considered turning her down — she was so much younger than me, after all, and so much smaller — but that expression gave me pause. I studied her for a moment. Her controlled posture, the challenging expression, the way her jaw tensed with what I strongly suspected was anger when I didn’t answer right away… She reminded me a little of myself at that age, and I knew exactly how I would have reacted to someone telling me I was too young and too weak to fight them.  
  
“Sure,” I said. “Just give me a moment to climb down.”  
  
She gave a slight nod. “See you on the mat.” Her expression was inscrutable, but I fancied she sounded pleased.  
  
As I made my way back down the climbing wall and unclipped the safety harness, I remembered Dennis telling me I could seriously hurt Missy, and I tried to push away the feeling of unease the memory brought. This wasn’t lashing out in anger, I told myself. This was sparring under controlled conditions. I could be careful. I would be careful. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I wouldn’t be doing her any favours by not letting her fight.  
  
Anyway, I’d already agreed. I doubted she’d take kindly to me changing my mind now, and I didn’t want to alienate a team mate.  
  
I did divest myself of my metal, though. I didn’t really want to, but… Better safe than sorry.  
  
We faced each other on the mat.  
  
“Ready?” Missy asked.  
  
I nodded, and we started moving.  
  
I was cautious at first, wanting to be sure I calibrated my force correctly. Missy’s fighting style was interesting: all flowing movements and redirection. It was very different to the force versus force approach I was more familiar with. Which wasn’t to say that I hadn’t learned a variety of different kinds of techniques over the years, but Dad’s training had tended to emphasise strength, rather than fluidity. It was actually pretty cool to see something new.  
  
“You don’t have to take it easy on me,” Missy said quietly. “I know what I’m doing.”  
  
Fuck, she really did remind me of me.  
  
“Didn’t think you didn’t,” I said lightly. “But I’m still trying to figure out what’s appropriate here. Carlos told me I needed to dial it back from what I’m used to.” She still seemed unhappy, so I added: “I’m only being cautious because I accidentally knocked Chris on his ass when we sparred earlier in the week.”  
  
She snorted at that. “You don’t need to be,” she said tightly. “ **I** can take it.”  
  
I did not miss the emphasis there. But… her form was good (better than Chris’, honestly) and she knew her limits better than I did, so I stepped it up a notch.  
  
This was kind of fun. I mean, sure, it was pretty fucking leisurely compared to what I was used to, but her style was novel enough to me that — at least while I wasn’t going anywhere close to all out — adapting to it was a little bit of a challenge. In one part of my mind, I was considering how I could use these techniques against stronger opponents, but mostly I was just caught up in the rhythm of the fight, and in marvelling all over again at the fact that nothing hurt.  
  
But that made me remember once more that I’d had fucking **fractures** , and that thought distracted me for a crucial moment, and then the next thing I knew, Missy was on the ground.  
  
“Fuck!” I exclaimed. “Sorry. Are you okay?”  
  
Reconstructing what had happened in my mind, she’d manoeuvred around me during my moment of distraction and I’d snapped out a punch to her side on pure reflex. I hadn’t really pulled it all that much either. I mean, I didn’t think I’d used any more force than I would have done when sparring with Lance, but that was still way more than I’d meant to.  
  
Hellfire and damnation!  
  
I hoped she was alright.  
  
“I’m fine,” she said, after a moment, her voice tight.  
  
“Do you need a hand up?” I asked, not entirely convinced.  
  
Shit. I shouldn’t have gotten distracted like that. I knew better.  
  
“No,” she said. She sucked in an audible breath and got slowly to her feet. It was about all I could do not to try to help her, but I knew she wouldn’t have thanked me if I had. I studied her with concern instead, mentally kicking myself for being so fucking careless. “I’m fine,” she said again, once she was on her feet. She lifted a hand as if to press it to her side, but let it drop again, going through some gentle stretches.  
  
“Sorry about that,” I said quietly, feeling pretty fucking awful. “I got distracted and fell back into old habits.”  
  
“That’s okay,” she said, shrugging. “No harm done.”  
  
I almost asked her again if she was okay, but then, again, I thought how I would react to such a question if the situation was reversed.  
  
“Good,” I said instead, nodding.  
  
“Shall we continue?” she asked, her chin up and that challenging look in her eyes once again.  
  
I couldn’t help admiring her attitude.  
  
“Sure,” I said, swearing to myself that I would be more careful this time. I had to be.  
  
If Missy had any objections to me dialling things back down a touch after that scare, she didn’t voice them aloud. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should be concerned about that.  
  
“So, what distracted you?” she asked after a minute or two.  
  
I almost dissembled, but then shrugged inwardly and answered with something approaching the truth. Fuck it: she deserved that much after I’d decked her without even meaning to.  
  
“I was thinking how good it felt to be functional again,” I explained.  
  
She gave me a really strange look.  
  
“Functional?” she echoed.  
  
“Not damaged.”  
  
Again with the weird look. I wasn’t entirely sure what the issue was, but she didn’t seem inclined to explain and I didn’t really know how to ask.  
  
“Chris said Panacea healed you,” she said, after a moment.  
  
“Yeah.” I wondered how exactly that had come up in conversation. “Her power’s kind of amazing.” I mean, so was mine, but there was something awe-inspiring about being able to fix someone the way she could. I wondered if she could use it to do something other than healing. She’d talked about tweaks… Did that mean she could upgrade people, too? Now, that would be pretty fucking awesome.  
  
“It is,” Missy agreed. She gave me a considering look, and I wondered uneasily if she was going to ask me how bad the damage had been as well. That most definitely wasn’t something I was prepared to discuss, so I cast about for a change of subject.  
  
“While I remember,” I said. “I made a whole fucktonne of mac and cheese last night. There’s plenty left in the freezer, and you’re welcome to help yourself if you want.”  
  
It was the best way I could think of to apologise for hurting her.  
  
(Lance and I did that, sometimes. Like when he’d smuggled out that bacon roll for me after Dad had disciplined me for hurting him. Which was kind of weird, considering that I’d been the one at fault, but I had appreciated it.)  
  
“Thanks,” Missy said. “I might have some of it later.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” I replied, smiling a little. We sparred in what felt like companionable silence for a few minutes. “You’ve been training a while, haven’t you?” I asked, thoughtfully.  
  
“A few years now.”  
  
“Thought so.” Would it sound patronising to tell her she was good at this? Possibly. But before I could figure out a non-patronising way to say it, she scowled and muttered:  
  
“Not that you’d know it to talk to some of the others.”  
  
“Oh?” I asked, cautiously.  
  
She sighed heavily. “Nothing important.”  
  
I waited to see if she would say anything else on the subject, but that seemed to be it. I didn’t want to pry, but I was really fucking curious about what had happened last night, and it seemed not unlikely that this was connected. I dithered for a few moments, and decided that it couldn’t do any harm to ask. After all, she wouldn’t answer if she didn’t want to.  
  
“I heard there was some trouble last night during your patrol.”  
  
“Not really,” she said in a clipped tone, pressing her lips together. A couple of moments later, though, she sighed softly. “Well, there was trouble, but we didn’t get anywhere near it.”  
  
That sounded like an opening if ever I heard one.  
  
“Empire, right? Shadow Stalker said they hit ABB territory.”  
  
“Yes,” she said. “They knocked over some places that were under ABB protection. Hurt and killed some people. Did some property damage.” Her expression turned grim. “Threw a few firebombs.”  
  
That sounded like a deliberate taunt. Like they were trying to provoke Lung into doing… something. Which seemed pretty fucking stupid given their current beef with the Merchants and Coil.  
  
What the fuck were the Empire playing at?  
  
I guessed these could just have been low level thugs who got carried away. If so, they were undoubtedly going to find out the hard way what a shitstorm they’d just unleashed. Somehow, though, I couldn’t find it in myself to feel any sympathy for a bunch of fucking nazis. Especially not ones who firebombed people.  
  
“Any capes involved?”  
  
Missy shook her head. “Not last I heard. Just thugs, molotov cocktails and guns.” She pulled a face. “That was why Aegis said we weren’t getting involved. He said it would escalate the situation, and that the authorities had it under control.” Her voice left no doubt as to what she thought about that.  
  
I knew the Wards did get involved in non-cape altercations — the drunken brawl Aegis and Clockblocker had intervened in during their patrol on Tuesday was evidence of that — but maybe it was different when the gangs were involved.  
  
I still had questions about the events of last night, but what I found myself saying instead was:  
  
“Must have been hard, knowing that was going down and not being able to intervene.”  
  
She glanced at me, and then looked away, briefly arresting her movement. “Yes,” she said quietly, and then made a surprised sound as I took advantage of her distraction to drop her to the mat. I was fairly gentle about it, all things considered, but she still glowered at me as she got back to her feet.  
  
I shrugged, meeting her gaze squarely. “Pretty sure you know better than to take your eyes off your target like that,” I told her, a little sharply. This might have been a friendly sparring match, but I wouldn’t be doing her any favours encouraging sloppy habits.  
  
There was a moment when I honestly wasn’t sure how she was going to take that — where I started to second-guess myself a little — but then she nodded. A brief, small smile flickered over her face; there and gone again almost too quick to register.  
  
“Let’s try that again,” she said, sounding determined as she squared off against me.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
That was the end of the conversation for a little while; both of us focusing on sparring. Admittedly, a not inconsiderable amount of my attention was going towards keeping my reflexes in check, and making sure I didn’t hit her hard enough to bruise. I guessed it was a good opportunity to practice my control. I thought I was successful at reining myself in. Missy didn’t complain, at least. She did seem to flag after a while, but she didn’t call a halt and, honestly, I doubted she was going to. I knew I wouldn’t have in her position.  
  
“Mind if we stop now?” I said. “I really need to eat sometime soon.” I wasn’t lying. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it had been last night, but my stomach definitely wasn’t happy at the moment.  
  
“Okay,” Missy said, after a moment. I was impressed that she didn’t show any sign of being relieved. We stood down, and I started going through some cool down exercises. After a moment, Missy followed suit. I saw her glancing over at me a couple of times, and it seemed like she had something on her mind. I waited her out, and eventually, she said: “You’ve been training for a long time, haven’t you?”  
  
“Pretty much my whole life,” I said.  
  
She have me another inscrutable look. “How are you settling in here?”  
  
I thought about it. “Fine, I guess. There’s plenty of stuff to keep me busy.” I thought a little despairingly of how much I still had to learn. And, on top of that… “Although I really hope I don’t have to miss much more school.”  
  
“You should enjoy it while it lasts,” she muttered.  
  
Startled, I glanced over at her. “You… don’t like school?” I asked cautiously.  
  
“It’s not that,” she said, quickly. “School’s okay, I guess.”  
  
I frowned, studying her. “Someone giving you trouble?”  
  
She scowled briefly before smoothing out her expression into one of studied blankness. I couldn’t help comparing her demeanour today with the way she’d laughed when I’d stuck Dennis’ feet to the floor. I kind of thought I preferred her like that. From everything I’d seen so far, though, I got the impression that today’s reserve was closer to her natural state than the open laughter had been.  
  
(Maybe I could try to make sure she was there to witness whatever I did to Dennis in retaliation for him freezing me. If my vengeance was amusing enough, perhaps it would make her laugh again.)  
  
“Not really,” she said, after a moment. “Just petty stuff. Nothing important.” She shook her head, seeming tired in a way that had nothing to do with the workout. “They’re just so young.”  
  
“I get that,” I murmured.  
  
God knew I’d felt my own share of frustration at how some of the kids at school got so hung up on such trivial things. Like I gave a fuck about the latest fashions, or who was top of the music charts, or what the latest so-called celebrities were up to. Christ, like any of that shit mattered in the grand scheme of things. But to hear some of those fuckers talk, you’d think not knowing such ephemera was an unforgivable crime. Or, at least, an excuse to mock the perpetual new girl. And I was always the fucking new girl. Shit, I thought Winslow might actually be the school I’d spent the longest time at in my whole life to date. And now I was going to have to start over again at Arcadia.  
  
I wondered if it would be different there. I mean, it was better than Winslow academically, that was for fucking sure. And it certainly had more resources; more money. But the kids? I… had my reservations. People were people, after all, no matter where you went. And I’d be the new girl again; the outsider, the weirdo. The one without anyone to watch my back. Especially if I wasn’t supposed to hang out with the other Wards.  
  
Fuck. I was going to have to prove myself all over again. At least at Winslow, people mostly knew by now to leave me the fuck alone. I felt, again, that queasy mixture of pride and shame as I remembered how I’d made that happen. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t. But… I kind of did as well.  
  
(Was that because of Dad’s example, or Mom’s genes? Was it nature or nurture? Or was it a combination of both?)  
  
Maybe, at Arcadia, I wouldn’t have to. Maybe it really would be different. Maybe I really could be better.  
  
I mean, I’d reached a peaceful understanding with Dennis, of all people. If I could manage that, surely I could manage to keep things civil at school.  
  
Anyway, I’d have to. Both the PRT and the Youth Guard were very clear that they expected Wards to behave themselves at school, in addition to maintaining their grades. I guessed getting into fights didn’t exactly count as ‘behaving.’  
  
(But sometimes you had to fight. Sometimes there wasn’t any choice.)  
  
I just hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.  
  
(Or, if it was, that I didn’t get caught.)

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Are you okay?” Missy asked.  
  
I glanced over to meet her eyes in the shower room mirror, flushing a little with embarrassment as I got my expression under control.  
  
“Fine,” I practically growled, clenching my jaw. I started to turn away, but hesitated at the look in her eyes, which seemed oddly… hurt. The next instant, though, her expression closed off again, her posture stiff as she concentrated on towelling off her damp hair.  
  
“Just asking,” she muttered.  
  
Shit. I hadn’t meant to snap at her. It was just… I crossed to the bench and grabbed my jeans. This felt really fucking awkward. Part of me wanted to just finish getting dressed as fast as I could and get the fuck out of there. But… She was my team-mate, and I thought we’d sort of managed to connect a little in the gym. Before I nearly bit her head off just for asking a question.  
  
I dithered for a moment and then sighed softly as I reached a decision.  
  
“It’s stupid,” I said quietly.  
  
“Oh?” Her tone was neutral. I looked over at her, but her attention was ostensibly on her hair, still. Honestly, that made this a little easier.  
  
“Amy told me she healed everything; even the old damage,” I told her. “But I only just realised what that meant.” I swallowed, feeling like a fool. There was an annoying, plaintive note in my voice when I forced myself to continue speaking. “My scars are gone. All of them.”  
  
A moment or two went by.  
  
“I see,” she said.  
  
“I said it was stupid. It just… caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Even though it shouldn’t have, not really. It was just… This was the first time I’d really looked at myself since Amy had fixed me. (At least, the first time I’d done so without being distracted by other things. Or people.) I made myself give Missy a smile, even though I was pretty sure it didn’t go anywhere near my eyes. “I’m not usually one for staring at my own reflection.”  
  
Missy studied me for a moment. “Did you have a lot of scars?” she asked softly.  
  
I shrugged. “A few.”  
  
“It must be strange, them being gone,” she said.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
A fucking understatement and a half. I should be glad, I guessed. But it just felt… weird. They’d been a part of me, literally; reminders etched into my skin. I’d fucking earned those scars; every last one of them. They proved that I’d survived. I might have suffered, but I’d endured it. I’d grown stronger. But now they were gone, and it made me feel almost like… like… like none of it had happened. Like it hadn’t been real. Like it hadn’t meant anything after all.  
  
(Like they’d just been damage to be fixed.)  
  
It was stupid.  
  
I was being ridiculously melodramatic.  
  
More importantly, I was making an absolute fucking fool of myself in front of Missy.  
  
“But I’ll get used to it,” I said, belatedly; determinedly.  
  
I guessed I’d have to.  
  
(At least until I got more scars.)

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“So, this is where you’re hiding,” Shadow Stalker murmured, breezing into the shared office like she owned the place.  
  
“Not hiding,” I corrected. “Working.”  
  
“Whatever. Let’s go.”  
  
“Ten minutes,” I said, continuing to type. Technically, I could have saved my progress in the course and shut it down right now, but there was no fucking way I was going to let the bitch think I’d drop everything the instant she deigned to show up.  
  
(Even if my pulse did pick up at the very thought of getting to fight properly.)  
  
“You’re the one who wanted to spar,” she said. “Unless you’ve decided you can’t handle it after all.”  
  
I bet the cocky chit was smirking under her mask. She fucking sounded like she was smirking.  
  
“If you’d let me know what time you’d be dropping by, I could’ve planned accordingly.” I tried to keep my tone light and airy, like I was completely unmoved by her verbal jab. It still came out with something of an edge. Nor could I stop myself from adding: “And I can handle you just fine.”  
  
“Uhuh.”  
  
Oh, I was going to enjoy smacking seven shades of shit out of her.  
  
Thoroughly.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Finally,” Shadow Stalker drawled, as I strode into the gym. She’d hung around the office for a little while, annoying me by her very presence, but then she’d decided to head on up here.  
  
“Your poor planning is not my fucking emergency,” I told her as I warmed up.  
  
“I could just leave.”  
  
“Sure, if you’re having second thoughts,” I said, smirking. “Feel free to run along home.”  
  
I was pretty confident she wouldn’t. If she hadn’t wanted to fight — sorry, spar — she wouldn’t have shown up in the first place. And I doubted accusing her of wanting to back out would make her any less likely to try and kick my ass.  
  
“Thought you were the one who ran,” she retorted, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe, I was so mad.  
  
Without intending to move, I found myself striding across the mat to get right up in her face.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere, bitch,” I growled, even as I mentally castigated myself for letting her rile me up so much. “Now, are we going to do this or not?”  
  
“Rules, first,” she said, standing her ground as I did my level best to loom over her.  
  
I couldn’t help scoffing at that. “Since when do you care about rules?”  
  
“I’m going to use my power,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. I frowned, starting to make some scathing remark about her being afraid to do this the old-fashioned way. She just spoke over me. “But I’ll accept a handicap.”  
  
I frowned, caught off-guard a little by the concession.  
  
“What handicap?”  
  
“I won’t change state within two feet of you,”  
  
I thought about that. Two feet didn’t give me much wiggle room.  
  
“Five feet.”  
  
“Not scared, are you?” The sneer was evident in her voice, making me bristle despite my best efforts.  
  
“Hardly,” I said dryly, looking her up and down with a distinctly unimpressed look. “I don’t scare easily. But if you’re that worried about me getting my hands on you, let’s say three feet. That should keep things interesting.”  
  
That would still allow her much of her manoeuvrability, but with my reflexes I should still have a decent shot at blocking and landing hits if she tried the old strike-and-fade routine. It seemed like a reasonable compromise.  
  
“Fine,” she said flatly. After a moment’s pause, she said: “You can’t use your power on the gym.”  
  
I pretended to think about it.  
  
“Sure.” I couldn’t stop myself grinning and saying: “Afraid you’ll lose more than your coat this time?”  
  
She snorted. “More like afraid you’re going to get yourself stuck in confoam.” She sounded amused, rather than irritated. “You can keep that, though.” She gestured towards my metal.  
  
I was tempted. Very tempted. But…  
  
“Nah, I’m good. Wouldn’t want to make this too easy, after all.” I went to drape it over a training dummy.  
  
“Afraid of disobeying Aegis?” she asked lightly.  
  
“Concerned I might damage you more than I intend,” I replied, my voice flat. It… wasn’t untrue.  
  
(It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t untrue.)  
  
“Like you can actually hurt me,” she scoffed.  
  
I turned to look at her. Everything about her posture was dismissive, from the tilt of her head to the way she cocked her hip. It set my teeth right on edge. I reclaimed my metal with a thought and pivoted to punch the dummy, stabbing deep into it with my metal and then ripping it free, leaving a hole right about where the heart would be. Next, I stepped back a little and lashed out with cutting wires, scoring and scarring it again and again and again.  
  
(Even holding back, even stopping myself from slicing the whole thing to ribbons, it still felt fucking good to cut loose even this much.)  
  
When I judged I’d made my point, I turned back to Shadow Stalker and fixed her with a challenging stare. I didn’t think I needed to actually say anything. My actions had spoken pretty fucking loudly by themselves.  
  
She just stood there for a moment, studying either me or the dummy. I wasn’t sure which.  
  
“You ready to spar now?” was all she said, though; her tone betraying nothing but a hint of impatience.  
  
“Be right there,” I said quietly. By the time I’d put the dummy back together and draped my metal over it, she was standing in the centre of the mat. I took up position opposite her. “Ready.”  
  
Shadow Stalker was moving before the word was even out of my mouth, darting backwards, but I’d been expecting that. I closed the distance enough that she couldn’t phase, pivoting to lash out with a right kick to her stomach. It didn’t land as solidly as I would have liked — the bitch was fast, even without phasing — but I’d bet she fucking felt it nonetheless. I followed up with a left palm heel strike, but she was already dancing out of reach, so instead I grabbed her coat and yanked her towards me, jabbing a punch into her exposed side. She took the hit and let the momentum carry her forward, turning the motion into a forward flip so I had to let her go or end up with a broken wrist. I pushed myself forwards, so that what would have been a sharp jab to my kidney — with an elbow, most likely — turned into little more than a glancing blow. Pivoting, I swept her legs out from under her. She hit the ground and rolled, coming back up to her feet, but I lunged forward and snapped out a one-two punch to her kidneys, making her stumble. Even so, she rammed an elbow into my gut faster than I could dodge, seizing the moment that bought her to shove herself away from me. I lunged for her, but she was too fast. Before I could get my hands on her, she made it to the three foot mark and phased into shadow.  
  
She zigged and zagged, putting some distance between us. I expected her to close again, going right for the strike and phase, but instead she paused.  
  
“It occurs to me,” she said, lightly. “That I have you at a disadvantage.”  
  
“Oh?” I asked warily, wondering what she was playing at. I advanced cautiously, expecting her to phase again before I actually reached her, but not wanting to charge full tilt in case this was a trap of some kind.  
  
“I’ve seen your face, but you haven’t seen mine.”  
  
“Figured you were shy,” I said.  
  
“Might as well even the scales,” she said, as if I hadn’t said a word. I figured this was a trick of some kind — maybe she was trying to lure me into attacking her while she was apparently distracted — so I hung back and waited as pulled down her hood and reached behind her head. (Also… I had to admit I was curious as to what she looked like.) After a moment’s fiddling, she pulled off her mask.  
  
My eyes widened of their own accord.  
  
Shadow Stalker was… black.  
  
I… hadn’t expected that.  
  
I immediately hated myself for my surprise — why shouldn’t she be black? what fucking difference did it make? — but then a second realisation drove even that from my head.  
  
I fucking knew her!  
  
“Sophia Hess,” I murmured. “Track star of Winslow.”  
  
Also someone who had a reputation for being able to look after herself. We didn’t really move in the same circles — she hung out with that redheaded queen bee and her court, and I was about as far from the in-crowd as it was possible to get and still be part of the same school — but our paths had crossed a couple of times due to both being involved with school sports. I didn’t think we’d exchanged more than a handful of words in total though, which was probably why I hadn’t recognised her voice.  
  
Even though I hadn’t known her all that well, I’d… kind of had the sense that we would have ended up at odds sooner or later. There was just something about her attitude; a feeling of challenge. Like I was being measured. Nothing solid enough to act on, but…  
  
I guessed I’d been right about us ending up at odds, even if there was no fucking way I could have predicted it going down like this.  
  
A slow, sly smile spread over Shadow Stalker’s — Sophia’s — face.  
  
“Astrid Berklow,” she said. “Psycho bitch of Winslow.”  
  
I tried not to twitch. Of all the fucking nicknames that could have followed me here, it had to be that one.  
  
“It’s not Berklow any more,” I said, striving for a casual tone, but not quite managing it. “And I’m not a fucking psycho.”  
  
Bitch, I would own, but not psycho. I knew how to fucking well control myself, thank you very much.  
  
“Not what I heard,” she said. But, before I could respond, she tossed her mask aside, flashed into shadow and moved. The resulting exchange of blows was fast and fierce. I was pretty fucking convinced she’d unmasked like this just to mess with my head, but I was determined not to let it throw me. I reckon I gave a damn good accounting of myself.  
  
“Do you always believe everything you hear?” I asked, driving my knee into her stomach.  
  
“I do when it’s backed up by what I see,” she retorted, sounding a little breathless as she eeled around me and jabbed a couple of punches into my side and back before trying to put some distance between us.  
  
(On one level, I couldn’t help tensing in anticipation of that awful tearing sensation followed by dampness on my skin, but of course it never came.)  
  
(It was fucking awesome not to be damaged like that any more.)  
  
“And what did you see?” I demanded, only managing to clip her with a kick before she got out of range and phased again.  
  
I moved, trying to keep her in sight as she zipped around and launched herself at me. She came in fast — too fast to dodge — slamming into my upper body with enough force to take me down to the mat. Half-expecting something of the kind — honestly, I was almost surprised it wasn’t a knee to the face, like on Monday — I was already moving as soon as I hit the ground, jabbing her in the side and pushing against the ground with my legs to buck her off me, flipping us over. She got a knee up in time to stop me pinning her — she’d learned from last time, it seemed — twisting and shoving to spill me to the side so she could wriggle free and get back on her feet.  
  
She really was a fucking slippery bitch.  
  
I surged upright and made a grab for her, catching nothing but air as she jinked back and to the side, but I was already following through with a kick. My heel slammed solidly into her chest, making her stumble, and I used that moment to close the distance between us. I did not want to give her room to manoeuvre if I could help it.  
  
“Saw you slam a guy face first into a wall and then damn near break his arm,” she said as I grabbed for her and she twisted away.  
  
It took me a moment to realise that was her answer to my previous question.  
  
“He must have had it coming,” I said, as we exchanged a flurry of blows. I wasn’t sure exactly which incident she was talking about, but then I hardly remembered every single fight I’d ever been in. Even so, I was confident in my assertion. I didn’t attack people for no reason at all. If I’d had to smack this guy down, then he must have done something to deserve it. Simple as that. “Anyway,” I added. “Not breaking someone’s arm doesn’t exactly make me a fucking psycho.”  
  
Especially considering some of the things she was rumoured to have done as Shadow Stalker. There was a reason the gangs didn’t get into it on Winslow school grounds, and it sure as shit wasn’t because she asked them nicely.  
  
Anyway, I was pretty sure she was just saying that to get a rise out of me.  
  
The really annoying thing was that it was fucking working.  
  
She managed to put some distance between us, phasing and moving to launch a series of strike-and-fade attacks. They weren’t nearly as effective without her being able to phase within three feet of me, but they were still effective enough. I had to give her this: the bitch knew how to move. She knew how to hit, too, but then so did I, and in an exchange of blows between us, I had a definite advantage. So, naturally, she tried to minimise the chances of such an exchange.  
  
“What about what you did when he came after you with his friends?” she asked, sounding almost amused, if a touch breathless.  
  
“Gonna have to narrow it down a little,” I ground out. Because there’d been more than one occasion when I’d pissed someone off enough that they’d come after me with back up.  
  
“Stacey Meadows. That help jog your memory?”  
  
It… did, actually.  
  
Stacey was a girl in my year who’d taken a dislike to me for some reason. That wasn’t particularly unusual. But the bitch wouldn’t stop needling me, and one day I just lost my patience. I didn’t hurt her — didn’t even touch her, in point of fact — but made I made it very clear to her that she needed to stop fucking with me. I liked to think the ‘or else’ was implied. So she went crying to her boyfriend, and he decided to have words with me. I guessed he hadn’t liked me threatening his precious little princess. But his attempt to put me in my place went… poorly. For him. I’d hoped that would be the end of it, but apparently he was a sore fucking loser. So he rounded up a couple of his friends and the bastards jumped me on my way home from soccer practice.  
  
(Kind of my own stupid fault for not changing up my route enough, I guessed. I knew better than to let my movements be predictable. I’d been trained better than that. If I’d varied my route a little more, they wouldn’t have been able to ambush me as easily. I’d just… liked that park.)  
  
(Stupid to let sentiment trump practicality, but there it was.)  
  
“I was right, then: he had it coming,” was what I said out loud. “And so did they.” A thought occurred to me. “You were there?”  
  
Because Stacey’s boyfriend — whatever the fuck he was called — had gone after me on school grounds, so I could believe that there might have been witnesses. But that park had been pretty fucking deserted, as far as I could tell.  
  
“Maybe. Or maybe I just heard about it later. Either way, you really fucked them up.” When she said that last part, there was something in her voice that almost sounded like… admiration?  
  
“Didn’t have a choice,” I said tersely. “Three against one, and they were pretty fucking determined. I had to take them down hard and fast.” If I hadn’t… I didn’t want to think about how badly that would have gone for me. I’d taken a couple of nasty hits as it was — enough to convince me they weren’t messing around. So I’d done what I’d had to do. “Anyway, it’s not like I did any permanent damage.”  
  
At least, I didn’t think I had. Sure, they’d looked pretty fucking battered when I next saw them at school, but they didn’t have any casts or anything. I’d just beat the shit out of them, that was all.  
  
It was no more than they’d deserved.  
  
We sparred in silence for a bit. I couldn’t help thinking back to that fight, and what had happened afterwards. One of the fuckers must have talked, because that was when rumours started going around about me being some kind of rabid psycho. Not that anyone said that to my face, but some garbled form of the story got back to Lance, who’d asked me what the fuck had happened. He’d honestly seemed more amused than anything. Maybe even kind of proud. At least until the next time he got pissed off with me, at which point he’d promptly ratted me out to Dad.  
  
Dad had… not been pleased with how I’d handled the situation. Not that I’d stood up for myself, but that I’d let it get that far. He’d said that if I’d done a good enough job smacking down Stacey and her boyfriend in the first place, then it wouldn’t have escalated any further. And he’d been pissed off at me for drawing attention. Because that was against the fucking rules. So, obviously, he’d disciplined me for it.  
  
But then, afterwards…  
  
Afterwards, he’d told me to come and sit with him, and he’d asked me to tell him about the fight. I’d given a fairly bare bones account at first, but he’d kept asking for more details. In the end, I think I’d ended up telling him pretty much everything. He’d smiled then, patted me gently on the shoulder and said ‘That’s my girl.’ He’d actually seemed… proud.  
  
Talk about mixed messages.  
  
“So, if I had been there, would you be pissed?” Sophia’s voice drew me from my reminiscing.  
  
“What?”  
  
I was pissed at her right now, that was for sure. For being a bitch. For deliberately fucking with my head in a transparent attempt to get an advantage in this fight.  
  
(For the fact that it was kind of working, a little.)  
  
“Not intervening.”  
  
“I had it under control,” I growled, bristling at the suggestion that I hadn’t. Fury lending me new strength, I blocked her incoming strike and slammed my fist into her solar plexus, sweeping her legs as she reeled and following her down to pin her beneath me on the mat. “I didn’t need any fucking help.”  
  
“Glad to hear it,” she said, coughing a little as she struggled to shove me off her.  
  
I tangled my fingers in her hair and lifted her head up just far enough that I could smack it against the ground. I was relatively gentle about it — I wasn’t actually trying to damage her, after all, just get her attention.  
  
“Why are you bringing this up, anyway?” I demanded. “What’s your angle?”  
  
I was pretty sure I already knew. She was trying to mess with me, both to throw me off my stride and because that was just the kind of thing she did. I’d seen it on Monday, during the briefing, when she seemingly did her level best to push Carlos into snapping. She clearly liked pushing people’s buttons.  
  
“Maybe I just like to get to know my team mates,” she said, her light, airy tone belied by the determination of her struggles. It was actually an effort to keep her pinned.  
  
“Try again,” I said, flatly.  
  
I just wanted her to admit what she was doing.  
  
She went still for a moment, studying me with a calculating look. And then, unexpectedly, she smiled.  
  
“I’m trying to figure out if you’re the one who burned your house down.”  
  
I twitched at that. Only a little, and only briefly, but Sophia seized the opportunity like she’d been waiting for it. The next thing I knew, I was the one on my back, her weight pressing me into the mat. I stared stupidly up at her, my heart pounding, reeling inside at her words.  
  
Someone had burned my fucking house down?  
  
The confusion lasted all of a moment before the pieces clicked into place. I could have groaned aloud, but instead I channelled energy the realisation gave me into smacking Sophia in the side of the head and shoving her off me. She, slippery bitch that she was, went with the motion and used it to put some distance between us. I scrambled to catch her, and we exchanged a few blows before she disengaged and zipped away.  
  
“When?” I snapped.  
  
“When what?” she asked lightly, blurring into shadow and launching herself at me. This time, though, I dodged aside in time, but that didn’t stop her turning on a dime to launch a series of lightning fast strikes at me. I responded in kind. Some of her blows landed, but so did some of mine, and I’d wager she felt mine more.  
  
“You know what,” I said tightly, trying — pretty fucking unsuccessfully — to keep my voice and expression under control.  
  
She smirked. Because of course she fucking did. “Monday night,” she said.  
  
So… after Dad got the emergency removal order. The timing made sense, and it was his MO. Which meant they’d gone underground, just as I’d thought (hoped) they would.  
  
(Even though I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that maybe some of our enemies had caught up with us; that maybe Dad and Lance had been hurt, or worse.)  
  
(Could Dad even be hurt by fire? I didn’t know.)  
  
“Were they…? Was anyone…?” I couldn’t make myself finish the question. Luckily, Sophia seemed to know what I was trying to ask.  
  
“No bodies,” she said. “So, was it you?”  
  
“Are you fucking serious?”  
  
The fucking nerve of this bitch! Did she really believe I’d burned down my own goddamned house?  
  
“That’s not a no,” she drawled.  
  
“No,” I growled, feeling a distinct sense of satisfaction as I slammed my fist hard into her stomach. “I was here on Monday night.”  
  
“You could’ve sneaked out,” she said, infuriatingly, smacking my arm aside and stamping down on my instep.  
  
“It wasn’t me.”  
  
I tried to put her in a wrist-lock, but she twisted out of it and tried to trip me. I kept my feet, but she disengaged and put some distance between us. I expected her to move in again, but she paused, studying me thoughtfully.  
  
“Maybe not,” she said. “But you didn’t seem all that surprised.”  
  
Shit.  
  
“What, because I’m not weeping and wailing?” I infused my words with all the scorn I could muster. “Anyway, what the fuck do you know about it?”  
  
I was really interested in the answer to that question.  
  
“I like to know what’s going on in my turf,” she said, which was absolutely no fucking help whatsoever. But before I could voice that, she was blurring towards me, and the fight was back on. “So,” she said, as we did our level best to deck each other. “We going to talk about the elephant in the room?”  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snapped.  
  
She twisted away and danced out of range again, keeping her distance as I moved to close with her again. “Or maybe I should say the Empire in the family.”  
  
My stomach dropped.  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
“My family’s not with the fucking Empire,” I said after a moment.  
  
“Really?” she sneered. “Your brother certainly seems tight with them.”  
  
Goddamn Lance! Even though I’d left him behind, he was still fucking me over.  
  
“That’s him, not me.”  
  
“You’re saying you’re not a nazi?”  
  
My pulse roared in my ears, a red haze descending over my vision. I lunged for Sophia, but the bitch was already blurring into her shadow state and flashing past me. I turned to face her, but she was already darting back towards me, foot lashing out to take my legs out from under me. Already off-balance from the turn, I went crashing to the mat. A second kick caught me in the ribs as I rolled to my feet, spinning me enough that my fist only just clipped her side. I tried to close the distance again, but she just kept moving.  
  
“I’m **not** a fucking nazi!” I snapped, wanting nothing more than to smack the smirk off her stupid face.  
  
I swear, her smirk actually widened. It definitely got even more annoying.  
  
“For someone who says she isn’t a nazi, you certainly seem happy enough trying to smack around a black girl.”  
  
I froze.  
  
That… That wasn’t what this was.  
  
Was it?  
  
Fuck.  
  
Could it-  
  
I hit the mat again.  
  
Because of course Sophia took advantage of my moment of consternation. Of course she fucking did.  
  
And I absolutely could not afford to let her fluster me like this.  
  
I pulled myself together; made myself push aside the anger and confusion.  
  
Right.  
  
I was focused.  
  
Sophia’s fist crashed into my side.  
  
Okay, mostly focused.  
  
But, one way or another, this bitch was going down.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“You really think I’m a nazi?” I asked, sounding way more hesitant than I was really comfortable with. Certainly more hesitant than I’d intended. But then, Sophia had been clubbing me over the head with that particular accusation — or some variant thereof — all the way through the remainder of the fight. And, much though I would have liked to claim otherwise, it had definitely put me off my stride.  
  
Not that she’d kicked my ass or anything, but things had definitely gone less well for me than I’d hoped.  
  
Sophia paused in the act of pulling on her T-shirt.  
  
(I wondered if this was some kind of weird trust thing: her getting changed in the main part of the locker room with me, rather than using one of the cubicles. I mean, I was fine out here, but then I wasn’t exactly body conscious.)  
  
(Then again, I knew who she was now. Hiding away would have been pretty redundant at this point.)  
  
(Or maybe I was just overthinking this.)  
  
“Don’t know,” she said, flatly. “Guess I’ll just have to see how you deal with the Empire. When baby is finally allowed out on the street.”  
  
I stiffened, only just managing not to clench my fists.  
  
“I have no problems whatsoever going after those fuckers,” I growled. “I fucking **hate** nazis.”  
  
I deliberately didn’t address the second part of what she said. I was pissed off enough as it was.  
  
Sophia studied me, her expression closed.  
  
“Prove it.”  
  
I eyed her cautiously.  
  
“How?”  
  
She shrugged and smirked.  
  
“Guess you’ll just have to figure that out for yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Astrid's visit to the testing facility will be posted as '[Testing, Testing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7582660/chapters/17253208),' the next story in this series. It will be from the perspective of various members of the testing facility staff, and won't feature much in the way of character development for Astrid herself, so it's really more of a world-building side-story. It can easily be skipped if reading about lots of tangential original characters isn't your bag.
> 
> Once '[Testing, Testing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7582660/chapters/17253208)' is done (nine chapters in total), Mixed Feelings will resume with Aphenphosmphobia 3.04, which picks up the narrative immediately after Astrid's power evaluation.


	31. Aphenphosmphobia 3.04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up more or less immediately after the side-story [Testing, Testing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7582660/chapters/17253208) finishes.

I lunged forward, desperation making my heart pound like a drum as I strove for a perfection that my body just couldn’t deliver; faltering and falling short no matter how hard I tried, and I was trying so fucking hard. Panic squeezed my thoughts like a vice as I realised that it wasn’t enough, that it wouldn’t be enough, and the one thing I knew beyond all shadow of a doubt that was I couldn’t afford to **fail**.  
  
Not again.  
  
Not a-  
  
Huh?  
  
I looked around, confused. There was… I’d been… I…  
  
Understanding hit me like a smack in the face.  
  
I swore under my breath.  
  
Another fucking nightmare. That was why I was standing in the middle of my room with my heart beating a mile a minute, facing off against absolutely nothing at all. The details of the dream were fading fast now, and as far as I was concerned, that was a good thing. I was perfectly happy for the mystery of how my subconscious had seen fit to torment me this time to remain just that: a mystery.  
  
Fuck knew there were more than enough possibilities to choose from.  
  
There was one mystery I would like to solve, though. What the flying fuck had woken me up? I hadn’t fallen out of bed this time. I didn’t think I’d smacked into the wall or anything during whatever flailing around my body had been doing while my mind went a-wandering. (Anyway, even if I had, my wrist wasn’t fucking fractured any longer, so bashing it wouldn’t have hurt enough to jolt me out of slumber.)  
  
Not that I was complaining, but I was kind of curious.  
  
A knock at the door both answered my question and had me frantically stamping down a sudden urge to fill the corridor outside with spikes. I mean, I wouldn’t have; of course I wouldn’t. I hadn’t been anywhere close to actually making that happen. But… better safe than giving whoever was standing outside my room a very bad day. Night. Whatever.  
  
I contemplated not answering. God knew I wasn’t exactly feeling sociable right now. But then whoever-it-was knocked again. Given this must have been at least the third time they’d knocked — assuming that was what had startled me awake in the first place — they were clearly one persistent motherfucker.  
  
“Hey, Astrid?” Dennis’ voice was so serious, so devoid of its characteristic humour, that it took me a moment to recognise it. “Are you okay?”  
  
Well, this was just fucking great. What was he even doing here? As far as I knew, he’d neither run away from home nor had it burned to the ground. Unlike me, he actually had somewhere else to go.  
  
But, whatever his reasons for staying over, he didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon, so I supposed I might as well answer him.  
  
“Fine,” I said belatedly, my voice cracking a little on the word. My throat felt really goddamn sore. Had I been screaming in my sleep again? I fucking hoped not. I must have been making some kind of racket, though, or Dennis wouldn’t have been standing outside my door right now, asking if I was okay.  
  
God, this was embarrassing.  
  
I absently retrieved my metal from where I’d left it wrapped around my headboard, feeling a certain sense of relief as it settled into its proper place around my forearms. I’d hated having to give it up for the medical assessment and powers evaluation. I mean, I understood why they’d made me do it, of course, but still.  
  
It had felt weird, not having it.  
  
(I wondered if I was going to be punished for trying to replace it at various points throughout the evaluation. Unease flickered inside me at how many of those times had been without my conscious decision.)  
  
(Control, dammit. I had to keep control of my power.)  
  
(I had to.)  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
I huffed out an irritated breath. Why was he even still out there?  
  
“What, you want a doctor’s note or something?” I said, acidly, idly practicing with my metal.  
  
“It might help,” he said, after a moment, and there was the missing humour, back in spades. “I mean, it’s not like you’ve really shown any great judgement in that regard as long as I’ve known you.”  
  
Because a week was such a long time.  
  
Did I say humour? What I mean was smartassedness.  
  
“Asshole,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.  
  
“I couldn’t quite hear that, so I’m just going to assume that you’re complimenting my great insight and wisdom,” he drawled.  
  
“Asshole,” I said again, louder.  
  
“What’s that?” he said, and I could practically hear that goddamn smirk. “Handsome as well as wise? Why, Astrid, I’m flattered. You do say the sweetest things.”  
  
My cheeks burned, and I’m sure my face must have been bright flaming scarlet. Against my better judgement, rather than simply ignoring the bastard, I found myself striding across the room to wrench the door open. (I had to unseal it first, of course, but that was hardly difficult.)  
  
(I also made damn sure I returned my metal to quiescence. Just in case.)  
  
“You know what I said,” I ground out, glaring daggers at him. “Why do you always have to be such an-“ I broke off, frowning, as my sleep-addled brain finally kicked itself into gear. “What the fuck’s the matter with you? You look like shit.”  
  
The circles under his eyes were so dark they were practically bruises, standing out starkly against the pallor of his skin. His face looked pinched and drawn and, despite the inevitable smirk, there was something unexpectedly grim in the depths of his eyes.  
  
The first thought that came to mind was that someone must have been hurt; maybe someone on the team.  
  
“Nice try, New Girl,” he said. “But I already know the truth. You won’t throw me off the scent that easily.”  
  
He actually wagged his fucking finger at me. Looking like shit or not, the only thing that stopped me clocking him right then and there — no pun intended — was the fact that he was out of immediate smacking range. (Even if he wasn’t out of range of my power.) And that I was deliberately squelching any instinct to violence. I had promised I would try to use my words, after all.  
  
No matter how great the temptation to do otherwise.  
  
“Seriously,” I said, studying him. “What’s wrong? And don’t try and bullshit me again. I really don’t have the patience right now.”  
  
He looked at me for a moment and then, to my utter shock, his smirk faded and he slumped a little, leaning against the wall opposite me.  
  
Quietly; so quietly I had to strain my ears to hear it, despite the fact that he wasn’t that far away, he said:  
  
“You’re not the only one who’s been having trouble sleeping.”  
  
Well, shit.  
  
I wasn’t expecting that to actually work. I thought for sure he was going to deflect, or change the subject, or make some inappropriate joke or other. Probably all three at once, knowing him. I just kind of thought that maybe I should make an effort. Seeing as he was a team mate and all. So what the fuck was I supposed to do now? Ask him if he wanted to talk about it? He didn’t look like he wanted to talk. If anything, he looked like he’d regretted saying even that much. I was willing to bet he must be feeling about as awkward as I was right about now.  
  
What should I do? What could I do?  
  
What would I want if it was me?  
  
“You want to spar?” I blurted out.  
  
“What?” he asked, looking at me like I’d asked him if he wanted to don a grass skirt and do the hula with Talulah in Hawaii.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“I was thinking about hitting the gym for a bit before going back to bed. Exercise sometimes helps me sleep.” I wanted to cringe at how stilted I sounded. Maybe I should try to lighten the mood? I made myself smile, even though it was just about the last fucking thing I felt like doing. “And, like you said, I guess some things are just more fun with a partner.”  
  
Shit, that was awful. Awful, and awkward, and… and… he was laughing?  
  
Huh.  
  
Score one for inappropriate humour, I guess.  
  
My own smile started to feel a little more natural.  
  
“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” he murmured. “Sparring, though?” He pulled a face. “Do I look like Short, Dark and Psycho to you?”  
  
Heh. I’d have to remember that one. It fit Sophia to a T.  
  
“You look like someone who, despite his protests, actually knows his way around a gym,” I retorted. Because, seriously, no one maintained that kind of muscle definition without working out. Especially with what I’d seen of his diet. “And, given that you’re a striker, I figure you pretty much have to have worked on your hand to hand skills at least a little. Means you might actually…” ‘Be mildly interesting to fight,’ I meant to say, but I trailed off as his face practically lit up with an unholy and possibly illegal level of glee. A feeling of great foreboding settled over me like a shroud. “What the fuck are you smirking at?” I demanded belligerently, glaring at him like I actually had a hope in hell of intimidating him into not being an asshole.  
  
“Oh, nothing,” he said, somehow managing to lounge insouciantly, despite the fact that he looked exhausted enough that the wall might just have been the only thing keeping him upright right now. “Just that I knew you were checking me out the other day.”  
  
“I was not checking you out!” I tried very hard not to yelp, my face burning hotter than a nuclear furnace right now.  
  
Hellfire and fucking damnation! What the flying fuck had I been thinking, saying that? I should have known he would’ve taken it the wrong way. Goddammit! I did not have the mental fortitude to deal with this right now.  
  
He laughed. “That’s-”  
  
“Call me adorable one more time, and I swear I will drop you through the floor,” I snapped, trying very hard not to clench my hands into fists.  
  
“Painful-looking,” he continued without missing a beat, nodding at… my shoulder? Briefly confused, I glanced down to see the dressing Yasmeena had insisted I needed to cover what she’d called a ‘nasty scrape.’ Ha. I’d barely even lost a couple of layers of skin. It was a good job Panacea had fixed me before I had my evaluation. Yasmeena would probably have blown a gasket if she’d seen some of that damage. And I didn’t want to think about how much Dr Bailey would have fussed. Anyway, the skin around that so-called scrape had started turning from red to purple, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. “New, isn’t it?” he continued.  
  
“Yeah,” I said flatly, a little surprised that he’d actually backed off. Maybe he really was trying. Or he could see I was at the end of my rope. Honestly, I didn’t give a shit as long as he didn’t call me fucking adorable again.  
  
“What happened?” he asked, studying it unashamedly.  
  
“They had me wrap metal around myself and make it move with me,” I said, shrugging. “I miscalculated a bit and ended up putting a little too much pressure on my shoulder. It’s nothing serious.”  
  
“If you say so,” he said, giving me a dubious look.  
  
“You Wards are so fucking squeamish, I swear,” I muttered.  
  
“And… that’s why I’m not going to spar with you,” he told me loftily, like he’d scored some sort of point. “Not until you can provide testimony from three independent witnesses who will confirm that you’ve figured out how to pull your damn punches like a normal person.”  
  
“I can pull my punches,” I protested, only just managing to stop myself from adding that I was the normal one; that they were just coddled. I mean, fuck, what were they, babies?  
  
“Tell that to Chris,” he muttered, his amusement suddenly gone without a trace. “You should see the bruise you gave him.”  
  
I blinked at him, nonplussed.  
  
“What?” I said, stupidly, hating the way my voice sounded so small and uncertain. “He didn’t say anything. Is he okay?”  
  
I hadn’t noticed any obvious signs — no moving stiffly, no wincing, no hunting down ice packs — so it couldn’t have been that bad, but my stomach twisted anyway. I wasn’t sure entirely why. I mean, it wasn’t like one bruise was anything serious, and I’d already known I’d hit Chris a little harder than I meant to. Hell, I did far worse to Lance on purpose, on a regular basis. And yet, there it was: I felt bad about hurting him. Not that I really had hurt him all that much. But…  
  
Now I was going around in circles.  
  
It must have been because it wasn’t on purpose. I’d fucked up, pure and simple. I hadn’t maintained my control.  
  
“Yeah, he’s fine,” Dennis said, to my relief. “This time. Just… be more careful in future, okay?”  
  
“I will,” I promised, feeling decidedly conflicted about the whole thing. On the one hand, it was just a bruise. He’d likely get a lot worse than that if he ever got in a proper fight. I was probably doing him a favour letting him find out what it was like under controlled circumstances. On the other… I felt really bad about it. And then I remembered accidentally decking Missy and I felt even worse.  
  
I studied Dennis covertly, wondering if he was going to get payback on Chris’ behalf. The two of them did seem to be pretty close, even aside from being on the same team.  
  
(I’d have to make sure he didn’t get his hands on me. I doubted he was anywhere near as strong as Lance, even if he did work out a little, but his power meant that one touch was all he’d need. And if he couldn’t prep at last half a dozen ways to fuck someone up the instant they unfroze from his time lock, then he just wasn’t trying. If he looked like he was making a move, I’d have to lock him down with the metal of the wall or floor. Unless he was willing to keep powers out of it, in which case I guessed I’d let him take his shot and only fight back physically. But how would I know which it was going to be?)  
  
“And he probably didn’t want you to know because he was worried you’d offer to let him hit you again,” he continued. “Which, by the way, is all kinds of fucked up.”  
  
That didn’t sound like he was planning on trying to make me pay for hurting his friend.  
  
“It really isn’t,” I muttered, distractedly. I wasn’t really paying attention any more because a horrible thought had just plopped into my mind as he started speaking, and now it squatted there like some kind of malevolent toad. I swallowed quietly, trying to keep my face from showing the (fear) concern that filled my veins with ice water. “Does Aegis know?”  
  
He’d told me not to leave bruises. Bizarre as it seemed, that was apparently one of the rules here. And I’d broken it.  
  
(I knew what happened when I broke the rules.)  
  
Dennis didn’t answer right away, and I could feel the tension between my shoulder blades ratcheting up, my pulse spiking to match, as the silence stretched for what felt like an eternity. He sighed deeply, scrubbing at his face with one hand.  
  
“Dammit,” he muttered, and the word seemed directed more at himself than at me. “I forgot. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Chris swore me to secrecy. Can you just, like, pretend I never said anything? Pretty please with sugar on top?” He made a half-hearted attempt to flutter his eyelashes at me.  
  
Huh. If he hadn’t been intending to bring it up with me, maybe he really hadn’t been planning on… doing anything about it.  
  
Okay, then.  
  
I didn’t really have a problem with keeping quiet, I guessed. I could definitely understand why Chris wouldn’t have wanted me to know. If someone had smacked me a little too hard during training, I sure as shit wouldn’t whine about it to them. I wouldn’t have wanted them to think I couldn’t take it.  
  
I had to respect him a little more for still wanting to train with me after that.  
  
I’d have to think of a way to make it up to him. Idly, I wondered what kind of foods he liked. Other than brightly coloured candies, of course.  
  
“Sure,” I said, aiming for a casualness I in no way was even close to feeling. “If you answer my question.”  
  
“Yeah, he knows,” Dennis said, sending my stomach plummeting through the floor. “Bit hard to miss it when we were getting changed.”  
  
“Oh,” I said quietly. Aegis had known for nearly a week, and he hadn’t disciplined me for it yet? He really must have been cutting the new girl some slack. I did my level best to keep my expression and my body language under control. I absolutely did not want to let Dennis know how rattled I was right now. “So, how much trouble am I in?”  
  
“You’re not, as far as I know,” he replied. “Carlos didn’t seem particularly inclined to talk to you about it, even before Chris spoke up in your defence.”  
  
But… that didn’t make sense. I’d fucked up. I’d broken the rules. I’d hurt Chris. (He’d spoken up in my defence? Did that mean he’d asked Aegis not to reprimand me? Had he asked Dennis not to do anything?) I deserved to be punished for that. I couldn’t believe that Aegis was really going to just let it go. There was cutting a new recruit some slack and then there was being soft. Unless… Maybe he was just going to wait until I committed some other discipline-worthy offence, and then deal with it all at once.  
  
Dad did that sometimes, letting minor infractions slide with a warning until and unless I fucked up badly enough that he had to discipline me. And then…  
  
I remembered what he’d done after I’d hit Lance too hard with my metal.  
  
Had that been when he’d fractured my fucking wrist? Or had it happened later, during the final exam? Or, maybe it hadn’t been either of those. Maybe it had been earlier, when he’d disciplined me for not running right along home after triggering like he’d ordered.  
  
(How hard could Aegis hit me? How hard would he hit me, when the inevitable happened? How bad would the damage be?)  
  
Whatever. It didn’t matter.  
  
I guessed I should probably say something to Dennis.  
  
“Thanks for the info,” I said, making myself meet his gaze even though part of me just wanted to dive back into my room and hide from his way-too-shrewd stare. “Anyway,” I continued. “I think I’m going to hit the gym for a bit. Good luck with the sleeping thing.”  
  
I started to turn away, intending to head back into my room to retrieve my toiletries, my mind already skipping ahead to what I would do in the gym. I would definitely be avoiding the treadmill tonight. Best save that for when I was feeling less fuzzy around the edges.  
  
God, why the fuck was I so tired? I’d had a good night’s sleep on Saturday night. A great night’s sleep, in fact; the best one I’d had in a long time. Okay, my subconscious had more than made up for it on Sunday night, but I didn’t know why the lack of sleep was hitting me quite so hard now.  
  
“Seriously?” Dennis’ voice broke into my thoughts, dragging my attention back to him. “You’re actually going to use the gym? Now?”  
  
I rolled my eyes at what I was pretty sure was his exaggerated disbelief, leaning on my doorframe as I looked over at him.  
  
“Well, it’s not like I’m going back to sleep anytime soon.” Even if I was almost certainly going to be a little bit wrecked tomorrow. “I figure some exercise will either tire me out enough that I can conk out properly.” Preferably without any more fucking nightmares. “Or it’ll wake me up enough to do something useful. I still have a tonne of online courses to get through, after all.”  
  
Dennis shook his head, a vaguely pitying expression on his face. “I see I’m going to have my work cut out if I’m going to corrupt you properly. But fear not, young padawan, I will persevere.” He smirked at me unexpectedly. “After all, apparently I’ve already made a start on your sense of humour.”  
  
“Oh, fuck off,” I grumbled, but I didn’t have the energy to put any real heat behind the retort. “What do you usually do when you can’t sleep? Look up porn?”  
  
He pressed a hand to his chest, his mouth dropping open and his eyes going wide as saucers as he gave me what I reluctantly had to admit was a pretty good impression of complete and utter shock.  
  
“The very idea,” he said breathlessly, fanning himself like some southern belle. “How dare you cast such dreadful aspersions on my innocence?”  
  
I snorted, amused at his theatrics despite myself.  
  
“If you’re an innocent, then I’m a pretty, pretty fucking princess,” I murmured, and then immediately regretted it when he dropped the scandalised debutante routine to give me an ominously speculative look. He opened his mouth, but I drew myself up and shook my head slowly. “Don’t say it,” I told him, the warning note clear in my voice.  
  
“You don’t know what I was going to say,” he pointed out, laughing a little.  
  
“And if I never find out, then I don’t have to make you regret it,” I replied. “Trust me: we’ll both be happier that way.”  
  
I wasn’t entirely sure why that just made him grin even wider.  
  
“So, you’re saying you don’t actually want to beat some sense into me?” he said, lowering his voice to a mock-whisper as he continued: “I think that might be Astrid-speak for ‘I like you’.”  
  
“Or I just don’t want to get in trouble for smacking around a team mate,” I retorted, fighting a completely ridiculous grin of my own. I guessed his sense of humour really was contagious. Or the exhaustion was affecting my judgement more than I’d thought.  
  
“You can make whatever excuses you like, but all I hear is love,” he said, looking entirely far too pleased with himself for my liking.  
  
“Then your hearing must be severely impaired,” I said, shaking my head. “Anyway, I was going to the gym. You’re welcome to join me if you want.”  
  
He pulled a face. “I’ll pass, thanks,” he said. “But… you could always join me.”  
  
I gave him a sidelong glance. “Doing what?” I asked suspiciously.  
  
“Something that’s more fun with a partner,” he said, smirking. I fixed him with a flat, unimpressed stare and remained silent. Anything I did say would only come back to bite me in the ass, so it was best to say nothing. Maybe I should adopt that as my general philosophy from now on. When I just continued to stare silently, Dennis looked vaguely disappointed. “What, not even a hint of a blush?” he asked. I folded my arms and quirked an eyebrow at him, amused despite myself. He smirked. “Okay, Little Miss Tall, Blonde and Brutal. Challenge accepted.”  
  
I… had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. Not that I was going to show it, of course.  
  
“Whatever,” I drawled, my tone deliberately bored and dismissive. “If you’re just going to be fucking ineffable, then I’m out of here. I already told you I don’t have the patience for bullshit right now.”  
  
“Video games,” he practically blurted out, sounding oddly… uncertain? “I was talking about video games, that’s all.”  
  
I studied him for a moment, a little perplexed. God, he really did look like shit. I was almost surprised he wasn’t just going back to bed and trying to rest. He certainly looked like he needed it. But he hadn’t said anything about why he wasn’t sleeping, and if his reasons were anything like mine…  
  
If he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now, well, I guessed I could understand that too.  
  
“You’d have to show me what to do,” I said. “I’ve never really played before.”  
  
He smiled, pushing off the wall with what looked like a not inconsiderable effort.  
  
“That won’t be a problem,” he assured me. “I’m an excellent teacher.”  
  
I made a sceptical noise. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” I muttered.  
  
I hesitated a moment as I went to shut the door to my room. Should I duck inside and grab my robe or something? The last thing I needed right now were more annoying comments about me being ‘semi-naked.’ Which I wasn’t. Not even close, in fact. The T-shirt and shorts that constituted my usual sleeping attire were perfectly fucking decent, thank you very much. (Although I had a moment of profound gratitude that the nightgowns Victoria had persuaded me to buy were still tucked away in the bottom of my underwear drawer. I did not even want to think what Dennis would have said if I’d opened the door wearing one of those frilly… things.)  
  
Anyway, Dennis wasn’t exactly wearing any more than I was and he seemed perfectly comfortable.  
  
Ah, fuck it. It was warm in here. And I refused to feel self-conscious about what I was wearing. I really wasn’t that goddamn shallow. Or insecure.  
  
Whatever.  
  
Anyway, I had my metal. That was the important thing.  
  
I closed (and sealed) the door.  
  
“Oh, don’t worry, Astrid,” Dennis said, that sly note in his voice putting my hackles up almost before I consciously registered that it was there. He looked over his shoulder at me as he started heading down the corridor, presumably just so he could grace me with his smirk. “It being your first time and all, I’ll be gentle with you.”  
  
Or… he could have turned around so he had a good view of my face when he said **that**.  
  
Despite my best efforts to keep the blush at bay through sheer, bloody-minded determination, my face felt like it was on fire. I drew breath for an angry retort, but then stopped at the glint of gleeful anticipation in his eyes. The asshole wanted me to react; of course he did. This was no different to Sophia needling me about Lance’s Empire friends, or my asshole brother prodding me about whatever the fuck he thought would get a response. Okay, the subject matter was rather different, but whatever. I could control my reactions. Well, maybe not the blush, but I could sure as shit control what I said, at least.  
  
And I would be damned if I would give him the satisfaction of flustering me again. Pun most definitely not intended.  
  
So, instead of snarling, or spluttering, or whatever the fuck else the bastard might have been hoping for, I made myself smirk right the fuck back at him.  
  
“I don’t know, Dennis,” I drawled, stalking slowly towards him. “Gentleness is overrated. Maybe you ought to try getting a little rough with me sometime.”  
  
Jesus, this was embarrassing. But… it was kind of fun watching his eyes go as wide as dinner plates.  
  
“Excuse me?” It was also goddamn fucking satisfying hearing the way his voice went ever-so-slightly higher pitched than normal.  
  
“Sparring, Dennis,” I said sweetly, savouring the moment. “I was asking you to spar with me. Not tonight, obviously, but sometime in the not too distant future if you decide you actually want to grow a pair. I’ll even make a special effort to pull my punches, just for you.” I couldn’t resist adding: “I don’t know what you were thinking.”  
  
He recovered his composure quickly enough, I’d grant him that. Faster than I did when the boot was on the other foot, certainly. Grinning, he inclined his head towards me just a little bit.  
  
“And so it begins,” he intoned portentously. “Already the dark side grows in you, my apprentice.”  
  
“Fuck off, Dennis,” I said, without any real rancour. Tilting him right back — even just a little, and even just for a moment — had certainly done wonders for my mood. “So, are you going to show me how to play these stupid games or what?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Son of a bitch!” I snarled, frantically mashing buttons on the controller in an — as it turned out, unsuccessful — attempt not to die. “This game fucking sucks.”  
  
“No, you just suck at it,” Dennie said cheerfully, adding insult to injury —or, rather, fatality — by dancing a merry jig on my corpse. “And you can’t even blame your suckitude on a sprained wrist. No, this is all on you.”  
  
I opened my mouth to point out that, as I’d only just learned how to play this stupid game, perhaps a little suckitude, as he so charmingly put it, was only to be expected. And, oh, by the fucking way, maybe he wasn’t anywhere near as good a teacher as he liked to think. And this game was stupid, and he was an asshole, and…  
  
That was what I’d meant to say.  
  
Instead, though, what I actually ended up saying was: “Fractured.”  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I guessed the subject had been weighing on my mind somewhat. And tiredness had undoubtedly loosened my tongue.  
  
“What?” Dennis asked cautiously, his hands stilling on this own game controller.  
  
I should have told him to forget it. I should have changed the subject. I should have gone back to my room, because I was clearly not at all competent to be around people right now. Apparently tiredness and frustration could make me pretty fucking loquacious. But…  
  
But.  
  
Goddammit.  
  
I just…  
  
I sighed softly and looked down at my hands. At my wrist, specifically.  
  
“Apparently I was wrong. It wasn’t just a sprain. I had hairline fucking fractures.” That was what Amy had said. ‘Fractures.’ Plural. “In some of my ribs, too.” I wondered how many. She hadn’t specified, and I hadn’t asked. Maybe I should’ve done. But what good would it do me to know? It was fixed, now. Gone. Just like it never fucking happened. I shrugged. “I guess the doctor in the infirmary didn’t pick them up.”  
  
Did that mean they hadn’t been that serious? Or was the person who’d examined me just a shitty doctor? Amy hadn’t seemed surprised by the fact that the doctor hadn’t noticed them, so it was probably the former.  
  
This time, anyway.  
  
Goddammit, Dad!  
  
The thought took me by surprise, bitter and spiky, like a lemon studded with needles; resentment and anger and a whole bunch of other stuff all tangled up in one big ball that pressed down on my chest like a stone.  
  
He’d disciplined **me** for lack of control? Maybe he should have taken a good hard fucking look at himself, first. Maybe then he would have been a little more careful about how much force he used when he hit me, or grabbed me, or wrenched my arm behind my back, or slammed me into something or whatever the fuck else he did to me whenever he deemed it fucking necessary. Maybe then he wouldn’t have given me goddamn **fractures**.  
  
I imagined saying that to him, spitting my anger in his face like poison, demanding to know if he realised what he’d done to me; how he’d damaged me.  
  
How he’d weakened me.  
  
For a moment, I could have sworn I felt a pressure at my throat, like a hand wrapping around my neck and squeezing…  
  
But then the moment passed, and I could breathe again. I had to suppress a shudder; had to stop myself brushing my own fingers over the skin of my throat to reassure myself that there was nothing there.  
  
“Shit,” Dennis said quietly, the sound of his voice startling me a little. I hadn’t forgotten he was there or anything, but I guessed I’d kind of gotten a little lost in my own head.  
  
“Yeah,” I agreed. What else could I say? What was there to say?  
  
The silence stretched between us like a garrotte.  
  
“And you still challenged Shadow Stalker to a fight?” The almost comically exaggerated note of surprise in his voice made me look up. I was a little startled to see him grinning at me. He shook his head, making a tsk-ing sound. “You must be some kind of masochist, New Girl.”  
  
I stared at him for a second, caught completely off-guard, and then I rolled my eyes.  
  
“That was what she said,” I muttered. “But you’re both wrong.”  
  
I wasn’t entirely sure what I would have said then — quite possibly something that we both would have regretted — but turned out to be a was a moot point when Dennis started talking again.  
  
“What, you’re just stubborn?” he scoffed, smirking in a way that set my teeth on edge.  
  
“I’m not stubborn!” I snapped, glowering a little half-heartedly at him.  
  
“She says, stubbornly,” he replied.  
  
“You’re repeating yourself, now” I said irritably. “Guess your smart mouth isn’t half as smart as you think it is.” His face practically lit up, and he started to say something, but I cut him off. “Don’t say it. Whatever it is, just don’t say it. I’m really not in the fucking mood.”  
  
I really wanted to hit someone right about now. I just… I hated feeling this way. It was like everything was all knotted up inside, and I just couldn’t figure it out. Normally I’d just pick a fight with Lance. We’d do our level best to beat the shit out of each other, and I wouldn’t have to think about whatever it was that had got me so snarled up and turned around. And afterwards, I’d feel, if not better, then at least calmer. Less like my thoughts were a writhing nest of serpents trying to devour themselves. But I couldn’t…  
  
God, what was I even doing?  
  
I’d left my home. I’d left my family. I’d left behind every fucking thing I’d ever known. I was alone with a group of strangers who would turn on me in a heartbeat if they knew the truth about who and what I really was.  
  
I just…  
  
(I wanted to go home.)  
  
(I was terrified that he’d find me and drag me back.)  
  
(I loved him.)  
  
(I hated him.)  
  
I was so fucking confused right now and I just wanted to make it **stop**.  
  
But Dennis had refused to spar with me, and somehow, I doubted me being pissed off with him would encourage him to change his mind. Anyway, it wouldn’t be the same. And, annoying though he was, I didn’t think it would actually make me feel any better to try to smack the smartass out of him. Maybe it would in the short term, but after the adrenaline high wore off? Yeah, not so much.  
  
Maybe Sophia would be around tomorrow. At least she didn’t seem to have any qualms about fighting properly. And she might be a raging bitch, but at least she was a raging bitch in a way I understood.  
  
But… that was tomorrow. It didn’t exactly help me right now.  
  
I sighed softly.  
  
“I think congratulations are in order,” Dennis said, apropos of nothing, his tone light.  
  
I frowned, confused.  
  
“The fuck are you wittering on about now?” I asked.  
  
He leaned back on the sofa, smiling at me. Not smirking, just smiling.  
  
“You’re using your words,” he said. “You haven’t tried to take a swing at me even once, and you’ve barely even clenched your fists. That’s progress, right?”  
  
Bizarrely, that actually… helped. Certainly, the knot of whatever-it-was inside me seemed to unravel a little. It didn’t go away, of course — I knew I wasn’t that lucky — but it shrank enough that I could shove it to the back of my mind and focus on something else.  
  
“I guess it is,” I said. I even managed a smile of my own that didn’t feel too forced. “And you seem to be at least making an effort to avoid going full asshole. So, well done, I guess.”  
  
“High five to celebrate?” he said. He started to raise his hand, and then froze, his smile vanishing without a trace. “Or not,” he murmured, slowly lowering his hand again. “Sorry.” He shifted back a little on the sofa, increasing the already not insubstantial space between us. (It was a really big sofa.) “Didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
I took a deep, slow breath, making myself stand down from my defensive stance, returning my metal to quiescence.  
  
“I don’t… deal well with sudden movements,” I said, a little haltingly. Which was kind of a big fucking understatement. I stopped short of apologising, though. I would not apologise for having halfway decent reflexes. It wasn’t like I’d actually lashed out at him or anything.  
  
“I’ll bear that in mind,” he said casually.  
  
I was so goddamn grateful that he wasn’t making a big fucking deal out of it; that he didn’t make this any more awkward than it already was. It made me kind of want to do something… nice.  
  
“Want some hot chocolate?” I asked, a little brusquely. I didn’t look at him as I set my controller aside and got to my feet. “I was going to make some for myself, so it’s no trouble to make a little more. If you want some.”  
  
Jesus fucking Christ, I was babbling. I must have been more tired than I’d thought.  
  
Dennis didn’t reply at first, and I glanced over to see him studying me thoughtfully. As soon as he saw me looking, though, he gave me the smuggest look in the history of smug looks.  
  
“Can’t handle the pressure of facing the video game master?” he said.  
  
I snorted, feeling the tension in my chest ease just a little more.  
  
“You wish,” I drawled, grinning. I started to say something else, but the words were swallowed up by a massive yawn that felt like it almost split my face in two. “Hellfire and damnation,” I mumbled, the words muffled a little by the hand I belatedly clapped to my mouth.  
  
“Dammit,” Dennis said a beat later, covering his own yawn. “Now look what you did.” I was too busy yawning again to answer him. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Hellfire and damnation? Really?”  
  
I glared at him.  
  
“What’s wrong with it?”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just a little… unusual. Eccentric, even.” He grinned. “Kind of like you.”  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“Like you’re one to talk, Motormouth McGee. Your sense of humour is anything but normal.”  
  
He clasped his hands together, gasping exaggeratedly.  
  
“What’s that? A pet name? You like me! You really do like me.”  
  
Much to my surprise, I actually laughed. Clearly, the tiredness was to blame. I reined in my ridiculous mirth and raised my eyebrows enquiringly.  
  
“Do you want the hot chocolate or not? I am so done with gaming for now, so I’m probably going to just have a hot drink and then go back to bed.”  
  
And pray that there were no more nightmares laying in wait for me.  
  
Dennis’ amusement seemed to crumble a little at the edges, revealing the obvious exhaustion underneath. “Hot chocolate would be nice, actually. Thanks.” He hesitated a moment, and then, asked: “Do you want a hand making it?”  
  
“Not really,” I answered without thinking, and then paused to consider. “But you can try to entertain me while I work, if you want.”  
  
“Ah! A challenge! I live for those!” he said, switching off the console and practically bounding to his feet.  
  
He was damn lucky I didn’t lamp him instinctively.  
  
“Don’t make me regret allowing you into my kitchen,” I murmured, scooping up the controllers and neatly coiling up the wires before tucking them in next to the console.  
  
“Oh, it’s **your** kitchen now, is it?” he asked, falling in beside me as we crossed the Hub.  
  
“I’m the only one living here,” I said. “Officially, anyway. I reckon that gives me a pretty good claim on it.” I was expecting some kind of so-called ‘humorous’ retort from him, so the lack of any kind of response at all made me glance over at him. He was watching me, his expression strangely serious. “What?” I asked, suspiciously.  
  
“Um, nothing,” he said, looking shifty. “I just… That is…” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions.  
  
I rolled my eyes, trying to squash the sudden flutter of worry that I’d inadvertently broken more of the rules of this place; that he knew about something that Aegis was going to discipline me for.  
  
“Just stop fucking around and spit it out,” I said brusquely, leaning against the counter and fixing him with a glower. “You might as well.”  
  
He sighed heavily.  
  
“Okay,” he said. “Fine.” He sat at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers restlessly on the surface. “So, you, uh, kind of talk in your sleep sometimes. Loudly. Yelling, really. And I wasn’t trying to listen, I swear, but the walls aren’t that thick and, like I said, yelling, so-“  
  
“You’re rambling,” I interrupted, covering up my sudden flare of panic with annoyance. God, what had I said? What secrets had I let slip? God-fucking-dammit, this was such a massive breach of op-sec it wasn’t even funny. Talking in my fucking sleep? Really? (Dad would beat me bloody if he knew.) Fuck. Just how bad was this? “Just get to the point, Dennis.”  
  
He took a breath.  
  
“Okay, the point. I can do that.” He met my eyes. “So, earlier tonight, you were saying… yelling… screaming… that you wouldn’t go back. That they couldn’t **make** you go back. And I don’t know who ‘they’ were, or what exactly was going on in your head, but I just thought… I wanted to say.” He took another breath. “No one’s going to make you go anywhere, Astrid. This is your home now, and no one’s going to make you leave. I just… thought you should know that. In case you didn’t. And… that’s it. That’s all I wanted to say. And now this is really, really awkward…” He said something else, but he was mumbling so much I couldn’t make out the words, and then he trailed off into silence.  
  
I couldn’t speak.  
  
I was so tense I wasn’t sure I could even move, locked in place, as still and silent as a statue.  
  
I didn’t… I didn’t remember that particular nightmare. I remembered waking up all tangled and twisted up in my bedding, my pulse pounding, with a vague feeling that I’d been fighting to break free of… something. Maybe that had been it. I’d managed to fall asleep again afterwards, though, at least for a little while.  
  
“I-“ My voice cracked on the word. I retrieved a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, draining half of it in one go. “I’m sorry if I’ve been keeping you awake,” I said, the words sounding weird and stiff in my own ears.  
  
“Dammit, Astrid,” Dennis said, his voice low but fervent. “This isn’t a noise complaint. I just…” He let his head droop forward until his forehead was actually resting on the table. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything,” he muttered, the words muffled.  
  
Mechanically, I drank more water, my thoughts in a whirl, emotions pulling me in all directions.  
  
He’d seen me weak. Vulnerable. That… It made me furious. It made me want to hurt someone. It made me want to hurt him.  
  
But…  
  
But he was trying to help. He was trying to reassure me. And, this may be awkward as fuck but, well, it kind of did… help? A little? I mean, I wasn’t sure I actually believed it — especially given all secrets I was keeping from the PRT right now — but he certainly seemed to. And…  
  
God, I was so tired.  
  
“I appreciate it,” I said quietly. “Thanks.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said, his voice thick with relief. “Now, let us never speak of this again.”  
  
“A-fucking-men,” I said, with feeling. I set my glass down and started methodically gathering everything I needed for the hot chocolate. “Now, aren’t you supposed to be entertaining me?”


	32. Aphenphosmphobia 3.05

I took a breath, raised my hand, hesitated, took another breath, hesitated some more, and then quickly knocked at the door before I gave into the stupid, cowardly urge to turn on my heel and scurry back from whence I came. In the instant after I knocked, my mind was overwhelmed by the crushing certainty that I’d just made a terrible, terrible mistake and I found myself wondering if I should flee anyway. And then, from inside the room, I heard:  
  
“Come in.”  
  
No turning back now.  
  
I took another deep breath, like the oxygen could fortify me, somehow. Like it could drive out the weakness; silence the voice in the back of my mind that kept whispering I was going to fuck this up, just like I fucked up everything else. I was going to fuck up and get myself disciplined, and…  
  
And…  
  
And I seriously needed to get a grip.  
  
Ignoring the pathetic yammering from the back of my mind I opened the door and stepped through.  
  
Captain Cavendish looked up from his computer as I entered his office and closed the door behind me. He raised his eyebrows a little when he set eyes on me, but just as quickly as the surprise appeared on his face, it was replaced by a smile.  
  
“Good morning, Astrid,” he said, and the unexpected warmth in his voice relaxed the part of me that had been wondering what kind of mood he was in; whether he’d be annoyed at the interruption. (Whether he’d punish me for disturbing him.) “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning. Is there something I can do for you?”  
  
“Good morning…” I had to remind myself not to call him ‘Sir.’ Even though not doing so to a senior officer felt wrong. “Captain,” I finished, hoping the pause hadn’t been as obvious as it felt. “No, I’m actually here to deliver a message. Is now a good time?”  
  
“A message?” He raised his eyebrows again, although he didn’t quite lose the smile. “That sounds intriguing. I’m just catching up on some paperwork at the moment, so this is probably as good a time as you’re going to get.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I’m actually quite thankful for the interruption.” I smiled a little awkwardly back at him, not sure what to say to that. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to expect a response, gesturing to the chairs before his desk. “Please, take a seat.”  
  
“Thank you,” I said politely. Well, as politely as I could when not using the proper form of address for a superior. Although, since the proper form of address was whatever the superior damn well said it was, I supposed that, technically, I was. In this case, at least.  
  
It still felt weird, though.  
  
(It wasn’t so bad with Ms Grant and Dr Bailey, probably because they weren’t PRT. Even if they did have some form of authority over me, they weren’t part of the regular chain of command. They had different protocols and etiquette. So it didn’t tie me up in too many mental knots to think of them by their names.)  
  
(Plus, it helped that Dr Bailey had seemed actively pleased on the few occasions when I’d actually been able to bring myself to call him Kieran. I didn’t understand why it had seemed to make him so happy, but I wasn’t complaining.)  
  
“So, who’s got you playing errand girl?” Captain Cavendish asked genially, once I’d settled myself. “Is it Vargas?”  
  
“No, Captain,” I said. “It’s actually one of your former subordinates. A man called Nick Stewart.”  
  
Emotions flickered across his face, there and gone too quickly for me to even guess what they were. It was clear, however, that the hearing the name had affected him.  
  
“Nick Stewart,” he echoed, his gaze turning distant, clearly focused on another place and time. “I haven’t heard that name in a while.” He abruptly snapped his attention back to me, his expression sharp and probing; like he was looking right through me; like all my secrets would be laid bare before the spotlight of his scrutiny. I had to suppress a flinch. (Nothing good had ever come of being looked at like that. Especially when it was someone in authority doing the looking.) “How did you run into Nick?”  
  
I quashed the stupid urge to shrink back in my chair, keeping my back straight and forcing myself to meet that pitiless gaze.  
  
“He’s working at Northeast now,” I explained, relieved that my voice was steady, rather than the tremulous whisper I’d half been expecting. “He was part of the group carrying out my powers evaluation.”  
  
“I see,” Captain Cavendish said after a moment. A ghost of a smile hovered briefly on his face. More to himself than to me, he murmured: “I should have known he hadn’t gone too far away.” Silently, I agreed with the captain’s assessment. I’d only just met Nick, but I’d known people like him before. Dedicated. Driven. Willing to give their all for a cause. Of course, most of the people of that type I’d known had been white supremacist assholes, but I guessed the same qualities could also be possessed by decent folk. He studied me again, and although his eyes were still alight with interest, it didn’t feel like I was under a spotlight any more. (It didn’t feel like this was a hair’s breadth away from turning into an interrogation.) “So, what’s he doing out at Northeast?”  
  
I considered for a moment, wondering if I was allowed to answer that. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Certainly, no one had asked me to keep it a secret. The pile of evaluation-related paperwork I’d had to plough through had included a non-disclosure agreement, but that had mainly been about not revealing PRT secrets to civilians. And, of course, the by-now familiar stuff about not compromising capes’ civilian identities if I should happen to discover something that would potentially allow me to do so. Answering a PRT captain’s questions about a former subordinate of his — especially when that former subordinate had expressed a desire to make contact — shouldn’t be a problem.  
  
(I couldn’t deny that I felt a rush of relief at the fact that I wasn’t going to have to disobey a superior officer by refusing to answer his question. I mean, I would have done, if it had been necessary, but that would more than likely have royally sucked for me. Being caught in the middle of conflicting orders was something I would really rather avoid if possible.)  
  
“He’s part of the Engineering, Technology and Applied Sciences group,” I said. “He designs and tests neural interfaces.”  
  
“Huh,” Captain Cavendish said. “So he’s finally putting his major to use. He must be pleased about that.”  
  
“He seemed to be,” I offered. As far I could tell, Nick had seemed to thoroughly enjoy the work he did. Even if I was pretty sure that, if he’d had the choice, he would still be a PRT officer; still be in Brockton Bay.  
  
Still be able to walk.  
  
“So, the Engineering, Tech and… what was it?”  
  
“Applied Sciences,” I said. “Although they usually call themselves ETA.”  
  
“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “That was a bit of a mouthful.” I smiled back at him a little awkwardly. “So,” he continued. “This ETA group was involved in your evaluation?”  
  
“Yes.” That seemed a little abrupt, so I added: “The head of the group is a materials engineer, and they have a lot of people with similar specialities. I suppose they seemed like the best qualified people to assess my power.”  
  
“That makes sense,” he said. “How did the evaluation go, overall?”  
  
I froze. I couldn’t help it; I was just so worried. Dr Bailey had said he was pleased, and Dr Ross had said the person in charge — whoever that was — had been happy with my progress, but there had been so many things I hadn’t been able to do, or hadn’t been able to do well. And that was even without getting into the whole clusterfuck that was the tour group I’d apparently scared half out of their collective wits.  
  
Except… Except both Dr Bailey and Yasmeena had told me that they didn’t expect me to be able to do everything they asked of me. Yasmeena had been pretty damn belligerent about it, in point of fact. And, as far as I could tell, they meant it. It… made sense, the way they explained it. That finding out what I couldn’t do — what the limits of my power were — was important. I understood that. I did. But I still felt…  
  
Generally, if Dad asked me to do something, he expected me to do it. No ifs, buts or maybes. No excuses. Anything less than total success was failure, and…  
  
(‘I will not tolerate failure, girl. Not from you. Not when I know you’re capable of so much more. You **will** do better, or by God and all the angels of His heavenly host, I swear I’ll make you regret it.’)  
  
Failure was unacceptable.  
  
Even though I understood the logic of what they’d told me, even though it made sense, even though I agreed with it… It was hard to shake the belief — the certainty — that lack of success equalled failure, and failure equalled pain. And I couldn’t push away the feeling that, despite all the people who’d told me that you couldn’t actually fail a powers evaluation, I’d somehow managed to do just that.  
  
But I didn’t want to say that, and certainly not to a superior officer. So I’d just have to come up with something else.  
  
“It’s hard to tell,” I said, carefully. “It was a pretty long day.”  
  
“I can imagine,” he said. “You were up pretty early.” He wasn’t wrong there, I supposed. Four am was a little early to be up and about, even for me. With hindsight, perhaps I could have stayed in bed a little longer, but I really, really, really hadn’t wanted to be late. “What time did you get back?” he asked.  
  
“A little after midnight,” I said. Probably closer to one, actually, but who was counting?  
  
It really had been a long fucking day.  
  
“You young people and your energy,” Captain Cavendish murmured, grinning a little as he shook his head. “I doubt I’d be as awake as you seem to be right now if I’d gotten so little sleep.”  
  
He didn’t know the half of it. Between those fucking nightmares and staying up to keep Dennis company — which had oscillated back and forth between annoying… and actually kind of nice — I’d probably spent more of last night awake than asleep.  
  
I’d cope, though. I’d have to.  
  
(I spared a thought to wonder how Dennis was faring this morning. And to speculate, again, regarding what had been keeping him awake in the first place; why he’d stayed in the Wards HQ rather than going home. I doubted he’d tell me if I asked, though. Not yet, anyway. Maybe once we’d fought side by side. Or maybe not. After all, it wasn’t like I was particularly planning on confiding any of my own secrets to anyone; not even the ones that wouldn’t get me thrown in a cell and interrogated within an inch of my life. Either way, curious though I was, I wasn’t intending to pry.)  
  
(Was he even up yet? He certainly hadn’t shown any signs of stirring when I’d dragged myself off to the gym. Nor when I’d returned to my room after showering to drop off my gym clothes and toiletries.)  
  
(Thinking about that reminded me that I didn’t technically need to shower any more; that my power could clean me more effectively than mere water and soap could. I tried to shake the guilt I felt at wasting time that could have been spent more productively. It had only been a few minutes, after all. Anyway, the shower had helped to wake me up, which had probably done more for my productivity than spending that time working or training or whatever would have.)  
  
(The fact that it felt good to stand under the spray and let the water pound against my skin — that, for those few minutes, it felt like it might be possible to sluice away worry and pain along with sweat and grime — had absolutely nothing to do with it.)  
  
(Nothing at all.)  
  
“Coffee helps,” I said to Captain Cavendish. If the tar-like substance I’d brewed up this morning still counted as coffee. “So does hitting the gym first thing.”  
  
Caffeine and endorphins: two great tastes that tasted great together. Or something. Anyway, I was more than capable of remaining functional on very little sleep. Dad had made sure of that.  
  
(Sure, prolonged sleep deprivation had proved insufficient to force a trigger event, but being able to remain as functional as possible while in a sleep deprived state was still a useful skill to have. God knew I’d more than been getting my money’s worth out of it over the past couple of weeks.)  
  
(Cheap at twice the fucking price.)  
  
“You’ll find those help less and less as you get older,” the captain said, with the air of one imparting great wisdom. “Trust me on that one. My days of being able to pull all-nighters and not feel it the the next day are long behind me, I fear.”  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said, not really knowing what else to say. And then I froze, realising what I’d said. “Captain, I mean. Sorry.”  
  
Shit. Had I pissed him off? I studied him covertly, looking for signs of anger, but there wasn’t anything obvious. If anything, he almost looked vaguely… upset? But that conclusion made absolutely no sense whatsoever and so I dismissed it out of hand. Maybe that was just what he looked like when he was irritated.  
  
“You don’t have to apologise, Astrid,” he said, and his voice was softer than I would have expected.  
  
Maybe he was just one of those people who went quiet when they were on the verge of losing their temper. Dad yelled sometimes, when he got mad or impatient, but it was when he spoke softly and enunciated his words very, very precisely that I knew things were going to get really bad.  
  
(For one horrible moment, I could almost feel a pressure on my throat; could almost hear the sound of leather sliding over cloth. I shoved the memories away, burying them as deep as I could.)  
  
(It wasn’t nearly deep enough.)  
  
“You… asked me not to call you Sir,” I said, because he seemed to be expecting a response of some kind, and that was all I could think of to say.  
  
“I suppose I did,” he sighed, giving me a look I simply couldn’t decipher. “But that doesn’t mean you have to apologise if you do.”  
  
I stared at him, confused.  
  
That made no fucking sense whatsoever. I’d done something he’d asked me not to do. I’d broken a rule, no matter how arbitrary and nonsensical it seemed, and no matter that it was by accident. I’d been disciplined for more trivial infractions than that before. And he was saying… what? That it didn’t matter?  
  
“I… don’t understand,” I found myself saying, without really meaning to.  
  
Shit! Apparently tiredness plus befuddlement equalled verbosity. I needed to get this under control. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to talk myself right into the basement. Or whatever served the same function in this place.  
  
But… now Captain Cavendish looked really fucking miserable.  
  
“I don’t think I explained myself well last week,” he said slowly. Distantly, I noted that it had, in fact, been a week ago today that I’d eaten breakfast with him, Seraph and Murphy. (A week since the PRT had lost people dealing with Viking’s assault on Coil’s territory.) “I wasn’t…” He hesitated for a few moments, apparently having trouble finding the right word. Or words. “It wasn’t that I minded,” he said, instead of whatever he’d initially been thinking of saying. “It’s just that it’s not necessary.”  
  
He’d certainly seemed to mind, the way he’d suddenly burst out with it over breakfast. He’d seemed to mind a great deal, in point of fact. But I could hardly contradict him. Although… maybe I could ask for clarification? I’d have to tread carefully but, honestly, I’d happily trade a spell in the basement for the comfort of knowing exactly where I stood.  
  
Pain, I could handle. Uncertainty, though, was fucking **stressful**. Not to mention exhausting.  
  
“May I ask why not, Captain?” I asked carefully.  
  
He shifted in his chair, frowning, and I was embarrassed beyond belief when I flinched at the movement. I really hoped he hadn’t noticed.  
  
“Why do you think it is necessary?” he asked in response.  
  
I blinked at him, nonplussed. Wasn’t it pretty fucking obvious? But he’d asked me a question, so I needed to stop gawping, get my ass in gear and come up with a passable answer.  
  
“As I understand it, the PRT duty officer has command authority over the Wards,” I said, somehow maintaining a level tone despite the fact that it felt as though my stomach was tying itself in knots. As I spoke, I kept a watchful eye out for any signs that I was on the wrong track. “I was always taught to address superiors with respect.” A sudden flare of panic made me add: “I hope I haven’t caused offence.”  
  
“No, Astrid, you haven’t caused offence.” His voice was gravelly with… tiredness? Sadness? I had no  goddamn idea. Clearly I didn’t have the first fucking clue how to read him properly. I just hoped I managed to figure it out before I pushed the wrong button and actually pissed him off. He sighed softly, and then sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You’re right that the duty officer can direct Wards during their shifts, or if they’re taking part in an operation.” I actually felt a small pulse of relief when he confirmed that. It was good to know I wasn’t completely off-base about everything. “But-”  
  
He broke off suddenly at the sound of a chime from his computer, holding up a finger in a ‘wait a moment’ gesture.  
  
I flinched again. Because apparently I’d woken up with a bad case of being pathetic this morning.  
  
Dammit.  
  
While I’d been busy castigating myself for my nerves, he’d pulled on a comms headset with a swift, practiced motion.  
  
“Duty Officer receiving,” he said, crisply. “Go, Dispatch, over.”  
  
Huh. Looked like something was happening. Must be something important if Dispatch was kicking it up to Captain Cavendish. I tried not to look as though I was eavesdropping. Which I obviously was, of course. Like I would’ve been able to help myself. I wondered what was going on out there. Was it connected with the Empire?  
  
(Was Dad causing trouble?)  
  
“Copy that,” he said crisply, doing something with his computer. “And the jurisdictional issues were definitely settled? Over.” Silence reigned for a few moments — I stayed still and quiet, hoping he wouldn’t dismiss me before I heard enough to figure out what was going on — and then he spoke again. “Good to know, Dispatch. If it does start turning back into a territorial pissing match, kick it back to me and I’ll crack some heads. Over.” His lips twitched in a small grin. “Yes, Patel, metaphorically. Don’t worry.” His expression sobered again as he continued. “When do they plan to breach? Over.”  
  
So, some kind of raid, by the sounds of it. Which meant a known target with at least potential parahuman involvement. One of the gangs, most likely. Empire? Were they going after Viking for what happened last week?  
  
Adrenaline make my pulse pick up, the strange familiarity of the situation giving me a weird sensation of déjà vu. I’d been here before, or somewhere like it, nerves jittering with anticipation as I waited for an op to kick off. Half-wishing I was out there, half-glad I wasn’t. Wondering if there would be casualties.  
  
In an attempt to distract myself from my restless nerves, I wondered about the ‘jurisdictional issues’ the captain had mentioned. If this op did have something to do with the gangs, I definitely could see the Protectorate and the police wanting to stick their oar in. But it sounded like things had gotten… ugly. Was that usual?  
  
(Was it something I needed to be worried about for the future?)  
  
“As we discussed earlier, I’ll be primary point of contact for Gimel Squad,” Captain Cavendish said firmly, almost like he was expecting an argument. “Please remind Gimel Leader. Over.”  
  
I struggled not to frown. Was that usual? I didn’t think so, but then I was hardly an expert on PRT procedures and protocols, despite my best efforts. Not yet, anyway. I really wished I could hear the other half of this conversation. Alas, getting even this much was probably pushing my luck. It was surely only a matter of time until Captain Cavendish sent me on my way.  
  
“Duly noted, Dispatch,” the captain said, which sounded to me like he’d gotten that argument. “But this frees you up to coordinate with the Protectorate and emergency services, as necessary. Anyway, this is a far better use of my time than paperwork. Over.” Another pause, and then the captain’s lips twitched in a small grin. “Thanks, Dispatch. Out.”  
  
With that, he turned his attention to me. I sat up a little straighter under his regard, my mind already skipping ahead to what I was going to do after my inevitable dismissal from his office.  
  
“Well, as I’m sure you’ve figured out, we have an operation that will shortly be going live.”  
  
He seemed to be expecting a response of some kind, so I nodded.  
  
“I’d realised something of the sort, Captain.” I hesitated a moment. “I wasn’t intending to eavesdrop,” I lied, hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. Fortunately, he seemed amused rather than annoyed.  
  
“That’s okay,” he said. “Short of sitting there with your fingers in your ears, there wasn’t really a way for you to avoid hearing that.” He regarded me thoughtfully for a breath or two; just long enough for me to wonder what was going through his head. “Do you have any commitments for the next couple of hours?” he asked.  
  
“No,” I said, cautiously. “I have a appointment at ten, but my schedule is clear until then.”  
  
My stomach roiled a little at the thought of that appointment — meeting with Ms Grant and Mr Reid. If I wasn’t careful enough — if I wasn’t controlled enough — it could go so very badly. But… I should probably try not to worry. At least not right now. There would be time enough to work myself up into a frenzy of anxiety. I didn’t particularly need to get a head start on that.  
  
“How would you like to stay and listen to the operation?” he asked.  
  
I could feel my eyes widen. I only hoped I wasn’t gaping too gormlessly. Belatedly, I realised that I should probably give him an answer, so I tried to marshall my thoughts into some kind of coherent response.  
  
“I’d like that, Captain,” I said cautiously, because that part was never in doubt. What was I going to do: say no? There was no way in hell I’d be able to bring myself to do that. I was just too curious. “But… may I ask why?”  
  
“You can always ask, Astrid,” he said, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “And the answer to that is quite simple. As a Ward, you need to be familiar with PRT field protocols. The best way to do that is to see — or, in this case hear — us in action. I like to invite all the Wards to listen in on an active operation when the opportunity arises. So, today’s your lucky day.”  
  
Okay, that definitely made sense.  
  
“I see,” I said, that familiar, heady mixture of anticipation and dread coiling tighter in my chest.  
  
“There’s just one thing,” he said, the stern note in his voice making me stiffen, watching him closely for any signs that I might have done something to earn his censure. “I’m going to have to concentrate, and when things start happening, it can get quite frenetic. That means I’m going to need you to keep any commentary or questions to yourself until I give the go ahead. Do you think you can do that?”  
  
“Yes, S-“ I only just managed to bite back the rest of the ‘Sir’ unspoken. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed. Or, if he had, he’d just think I’d stuttered a little. Being thought nervous wasn’t ideal, but it was certainly better than being thought disobedient. Sure, he’d said he didn’t mind, but I didn’t particularly want to put that to the test. “Of course,” I finished.  
  
“Good,” he said, nodding with what looked like approval. I relaxed minutely. The rueful smile he gave then made me relax a tiny bit more. “I don’t doubt that **you** can keep quiet,” he said. “But ever since Clockblocker sat in to observe, I make a point of mentioning it.”  
  
“I understand,” I murmured. I honestly wasn’t sure Clockblocker could keep his mouth shut if his life depended on  it. I could certainly understand why the captain would have decided to err on the side of caution after that. (I hoped Captain Cavendish hadn’t disciplined him too harshly. Even if he had almost certainly deserved it.) “Is it alright if I take notes?” I asked.  
  
“Of course,” he said, giving me another approving look.  
  
“Thank you.” I retrieved a notebook and pen from my bag.  
  
“Alright,” the captain said. “Some background. A short while ago, a tainted batch of MDMA hit the streets; caused some pretty nasty side-effects. BBPD connected this to the Archer’s Bridge Merchants, at which point the PRT got involved. To cut a long story short, investigators followed the trail back to what seems to be the lab where it was made, which we’re about to raid. Any questions?”  
  
I had so many questions. Where should I even begin?  
  
“The PRT is taking point on the raid?” I asked, wanting to confirm that assumption before asking anything specific.  
  
“Correct,” he said. “Why do you think that is?”  
  
I supposed I should have expected that he’d want to test me. This was supposed to be a learning exercise, after all. (Anxiety trailed icy fingers down my spine as I wondered what the penalty would be for failure, closely followed a flare of determination. I would just have to make absolutely fucking sure I didn’t fail.) Fortunately, I didn’t have to think too hard about the answer to this one.  
  
“Potential but unconfirmed parahuman involvement,” I replied promptly. “If there are parahumans on scene, the police are unequipped to engage them. If there aren’t, then deploying Protectorate assets risks drawing enemy capes, and escalating the situation. And engaging in a cape fight on the premises, as well as potentially causing collateral damage that could otherwise be avoided, risks destroying any evidence that may be present.”  
  
I could feel my pulse speed up a little as I waited to see if my response was satisfactory.  
  
“Good answer,” he said.  
  
“Thank you,” I replied, buoyed by a powerful rush of relief. I thought about what I wanted to ask next, but before I could say anything, Captain Cavendish sat up a little straighter in his chair, an alert expression on his face.  
  
“Copy, Dispatch. Thank you. Over.” He looked at me. “Alright, time to be quiet now.”  
  
I nodded silently, my notepad and pen at the ready.  
  
Captain Cavendish gave me a distracted looking smile and switched the comms to speaker, removing his headset and pulling a microphone into view from around the other side of his computer. A few moments later, a familiar voice emerged from the speaker.  
  
“Gimel Leader to Duty Officer, Over.”  
  
Seraph was a squad leader? Huh. Interesting.  
  
“Duty Officer receiving, Gimel Leader. What’s your status? Over.”  
  
“Locked and loaded,” she replied crisply. “Surveillance detail clocked three more individuals entering the premises ten minutes ago, making a total of seven. That’s the largest number spotted occupying the place at any one time, so there’s a high probability that one of those is our dodgy chemist. No IDs as yet, but Shutterbug got some photos.” The PRT soldiers’ callsigns and nicknames really did sound like cape names. Was that deliberate? “Surveillance are doing one final sweep, and as soon as they give the all-clear, we’re going in.” There was a pause, and I wondered if she’d simply forgotten to say ‘over,’ but then she spoke again, and this time her voice was slyly amused. “So, you’re in the mood to micromanage someone again, huh, Cav? Over.”  
  
I almost choked.  
  
My gaze snapped to Captain Cavendish’s face, and I tensed automatically in anticipation of the anger I was sure to see there. (Would he take out his temper whoever was within reach until he got his hands on the person who’d actually pissed him off? Was he going to find an excuse to discipline me because he was mad about Seraph’s open disrespect?) The expectation — the certainty — of what I would see was so powerful that it took a moment for me to register that he was actually smiling.  
  
And… he was laughing now?  
  
What the actual fuck?  
  
“I prefer to think of it as… taking an interest. Being involved. Employing a hands-on management style,” he said, and it was fucking surreal to hear the amusement in his voice. “Over.”  
  
“Like I said: micromanaging,” Seraph replied. “Were you catching up with paperwork? Over.”  
  
“I don’t know why you’d say that,” the captain said, sounding a little defensive. “Maybe I just want to keep my hand in, and take some of the pressure off Dispatch at the same time. Maybe I-“  
  
“So that’s a yes, then,” she drawled, and I couldn’t believe that she would actually interrupt a senior officer like that, let alone be so… rude. “I’m telling you, Cav, you should never have let them promote you into management. Some people just aren’t made to ride a desk.”  
  
“I’ll have you know I like my desk just fine, Seraph,” he said, his tone dignified and yet, if I wasn’t completely off base, still with that touch of defensiveness.  
  
“Uh huh,” she replied, and even through the speaker, her scepticism was almost tangible. “Is that why you take every opportunity you can to get in on the action?”  
  
Jesus. It was like she wanted to provoke him. I imagined talking back to Dad like that in the middle of an active op — or, hell, at all — and had to suppress a flinch. (Had to push away the sensation of a hand on my throat.)  
  
As the two of them continued to, well, bicker (as weird as that seemed), a memory popped into my head: Mitchell was one of the younger members of Dad’s squad; probably only a couple of years older than Lance at most. Anyway, he was kind of a chatterbox, and he’d had a few issues with comms discipline in the past. Like, he just hadn’t seemed to grasp the idea of keeping the comms free of extraneous chatter. So, after a particularly egregious incident, Dad had had Lance explain it to him.  
  
The thing was… Mitchell actually wasn’t too bad, as members of Dad’s squad went. At least, he’d always been nice enough to me. He never seemed to mind when I kicked his ass during training, and when things went the other way, he never seemed to take any particular pleasure in smacking me down. Unlike some of those fuckers I could mention. And he’d talked to me, sometimes, outside of training and missions; nothing particularly important, just… making small talk, I guessed. Not that I necessarily contributed all that much to the conversation, but, like I’d said, he was kind of a chatterbox, and he seemed to be able to ramble on just fine with minimal input from me. It had actually been kind of… nice?  
  
Whatever.  
  
Anyway, when he’d run afoul of Dad, I guessed I’d kind of felt sorry for him. Even if he had brought it on himself. So, when Lance was done ‘explaining’ things to him, I’d sneaked out and helped him patch himself up. Except I apparently hadn’t been sneaky enough, because Dad had found out. And he’d been… less than pleased at my interference. So he’d made me watch while he reprimanded Mitchell personally. He’d disciplined me as well, of course, but that pain had barely even registered next to the guilt I’d felt.  
  
I’d tried to apologise to Mitchell afterwards. He’d said it was fine and that he didn’t blame me; that he knew I’d only been trying to help. But… he’d barely even been able to look at me. And he never really spoke to me again after that. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.  
  
Didn’t break comms discipline again either.  
  
I was almost surprised he’d stuck with the squad after that. If he had cut and run, he would hardly have been the first. But he’d stayed. And, unless things had changed in the past couple of weeks, he was still a member of the squad.  
  
(Idly, I wondered what he thought about the fact that I’d run. Did he think I was weak? Did he think I was a traitor? Was he glad I’d gone?)  
  
(Not that it mattered. I was just curious.)  
  
Anyway, Mitchell was hardly the first person who’d been hurt because of me. Nor was he the last. And, on the bright side, at least I hadn’t gotten him killed.  
  
But I was supposed to be paying attention.  
  
“… any wonder Izzy wants to follow in your footsteps?” Seraph was saying when I tuned back in.  
  
Izzy? Was that his daughter’s name?  
  
(Did he train her the way Dad trained me and Lance?)  
  
Captain Cavendish grimaced. (I suppressed another stupid flinch.)  
  
“Don’t remind me,” he sighed. “She’s been pestering me to see if I can get her an internship here.”  
  
Seraph laughed. “She’s going to end up running the place if you’re not careful.”  
  
“Yeah,” he said, and he sounded kind of… proud. I felt like I was intruding, seeing the way his eyes gleamed; the lines of his face softening into a smile.  
  
(I felt a pang as I saw that, a sharp stab of something that couldn’t possibly be jealousy. Not of some girl I was never going to meet.)  
  
(Anyway, Dad sounded like that sometimes, when he talked to me. When he told me I’d done well. When he told me I was meant for greatness. When I did or said something that he said reminded him of Mom.)  
  
(Not that I cared. Dad had riddled my bones with fractures because he couldn’t control his own fucking strength. Why should I give a flying fuck whether or not he was proud of me?)  
  
(Why did I?)  
  
(And why, after everything, did I still miss him?)  
  
(Fuck. I wished I knew.)  
  
“Hold that thought, Duty Officer,” Seraph said, and her voice was brusque again; businesslike. “Incoming comms, over.”  
  
“Acknowledged,” Captain Cavendish said quietly, straightening in his chair. “Over.”  
  
There was silence on the line for a few moments. I wondered what was going on. A report from the surveillance detail, maybe? I wondered why it wasn’t coming through here. Maybe Seraph and Captain Cavendish had been speaking over a private channel?  
  
“Gimel Leader to Duty Officer.” Seraph’s voice interrupted my musings, and I found myself straightening automatically at the note of anticipation lurking beneath her words. “Just received the all-clear from Surveillance. We are go for breach.” There was a brief pause, and then she spoke again, the anticipation bubbling right up to the surface. “Catch you on the flip side, Cav.” Once more surprising me with her ability to switch from professional to irreverent and back with apparent ease, her tone was all business again in the next breath. “Switching to group channel now. Over.”  
  
So, that was confirmation that they’d previously been on a private channel. I guessed that meant their chat hadn’t been such a massive breach of protocol after all. She’d still been disrespectful as fuck, though, both in what she’d said and how she’d said it. I honestly didn’t understand why he’d tolerated it with such apparent good humour. Maybe he just didn’t want to throw off her concentration for the operation. Or maybe he didn’t want to dress her down in front of a witness. I bet he’d be having words with her afterwards, though.  
  
“Good luck and Godspeed, Gimel Leader,” Captain Cavendish replied. “Over.”  
  
Alright. Time to focus on the matter at hand.  
  
My pulse picked up as Seraph called for a sound off, confirming that all the members of her team were in position and ready to go. I was unsurprised to recognise one of the voices as belonging to Murphy.  
  
And then it was go time.  
  
Captain Cavendish was right: when things started happening, they happened quickly.  
  
At first, the only sounds over the comms were soft, rapid footfalls followed by the thud of the door being breached. That was a good sign: radio silence meant everyone knew and stuck to their AoR; that they were practiced enough not to need extraneous chatter.  
  
The relative silence persisted for a few moments more, lightly disturbed by the occasional, muttered ‘clear’  
  
And then things got loud.  
  
Yelling voices, all at once, shouting things like: “Down on the ground!” and “Drop your weapons!”  
  
The bark of weapons fire suggested someone hadn’t listened, but it was impossible to tell from the sound who was doing the firing.  
  
More yelling voices. Someone — more than one person? — swearing a blue streak.  
  
I briefly wondered why the squad hadn’t used a flash-bang, but the answer popped into my head as soon as the question took shape. Drugs lab plus incendiary device equalled very bad news.  
  
“Fuck, he’s not going down!” someone shouted.  
  
And, almost before he’d finished speaking, Seraph barked: “Jinx, FrouFrou, retreat and deploy confoam grenades.”  
  
A muffled crump noise came over the comms. The confoam grenades?  
  
“Brutes,” she said, a moment later. “At least three of them. Jinx: status?”  
  
Three brutes? I thought Mush was the only brute-like cape on the Merchants’ roster. I guessed they could have recruited some more, though…  
  
Murphy gave a pained chuckle. “Feels like a few fractured ribs from that thump. Figure I’ll get some rest until you get the solvent up here.”  
  
“Copy, Jinx. The rest of you, with me.”  
  
More running footsteps, yelling… A sudden silence that made my heart leap into my mouth, and then:  
  
“Bomb!”  
  
Running feet, yelling and then a loud, sharp bang, followed by… silence.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck!  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
Wait, that last one was over the comms. And it sounded familiar… I quickly ran through the squad members in my head, pegged the deep, masculine voice as belonging to the incongruously named ‘FrouFrou.’ In a distant part of my mind, I wondered if Seraph had given him that moniker, and if he minded it.  
  
“Gimel Squad, sound off. Over.” came Seraph’s voice. It was scratchy, and hoarse, and her words were interrupted by a coughing fit, but she was alive.  
  
I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding.  
  
One by one, the rest of the squad reported in. Some of them were injured, but they were all alive. Except… one voice was conspicuous by its absence.  
  
“Jinx,” Seraph barked. “Murphy. What’s your status? Over.”  
  
The silence stretched long enough that I feared the worst, but then there was a muffled sound that might have been:  
  
“Murphy here.” And then something else I couldn’t quite make out.  
  
“Jinx, did you just say you were deaf? Over.” Seraph asked.  
  
“Say again?” Murphy said, his voice clearer now. “My ears are still ringing from the explosion. Having trouble hearing. Over.”  
  
I was almost surprised by the strength of my relief. I’d only met Seraph and Murphy once, after all. But… we were all on the same side now, I guessed. All part of the same team.  
  
It was… kind of strange, really, thinking about the sheer scale of the organisation I’d joined. Dad never let his own gang grow too big, for obvious reasons. And on those occasions when he had worked for or with a larger group, he’d generally made sure to keep Lance and me out of it.  
  
(There’d been one exception to that, a few years back, when we’d spent a summer running with some backwoods militia who’d had delusions of being a force to be reckoned with. Dad had thought the training they could give us was worth what was probably only a minute risk of exposure. They hadn’t been based anywhere near Brockton Bay, and even in his heyday Dad had never exactly been a household name. From what he’d said, I would’ve been honestly surprised if anyone outside the core of the Empire would even recognise the name Throttle any more. It had been a while since he’d been active under that identity.)  
  
(Almost a lifetime, for me.)  
  
(Anyway, Lance and I had stayed at their training camp while Dad did whatever he’d been hired to do. Despite all the raging assholes wandering around the place — it had been a fucking neo-nazi militia, after all — that summer, surprisingly, didn’t actually suck. Not as hard as it might have done, anyway. I’d even go so far as to say I actually had some happy memories of the place.)  
  
(Granted, not that it had a whole lot of competition.)  
  
But, apparently, my subconscious was ahead of my conscious mind when it came to thinking of myself as one of the Wards and, by extension, being under the umbrella of the PRT.  
  
Between the confoam and the explosion, that was pretty much the end of the active resistance, but there was still the small matter of a burning drugs lab to deal with. The fire crew on stand-by was unwilling to enter until the site had been declared hazard-free, so Gimel Squad dealt with it by means of liberal application of containment foam.  
  
While that was in progress, Captain Cavendish signed off. I guessed that meant the excitement was over. Switching off the speaker, he turned his attention to me. I sat up a little straighter under his regard.  
  
“So,” he said, eyeing me thoughtfully. “Thoughts? Observations? Questions?”  
  
I glanced down at my notebook, getting my thoughts in order.  
  
I took a deep breath.  
  
“First of all, I was wondering…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Anything else?” Captain Cavendish asked, after patiently answering the latest of my long line of questions. (I hadn’t been intending to ask so many, but every answer I got just seemed to raise more and more new ones.)  
  
My thoughts flicked back to his conversation with Seraph, before the raid, and I almost opened my mouth to ask him how he could tolerate such open disrespect from a subordinate. Over private comms, but still.  
  
I… didn’t though. At first I wasn’t quite sure why — I didn’t think he’d punish me for asking. In fact, strangely, he’d never seemed to actually mind me asking questions at all.  
  
But, for all that he hadn’t seemed to mind me overhearing their conversation, it seemed private, somehow.  
  
And maybe… maybe it was something I could try to figure out on my own.  
  
“No, Captain,” I said politely, surprising myself by smiling a little without intending to. “Thank you for indulging my curiosity.”  
  
He smiled back at me. “You’re very welcome. It was hardly a chore, though. This was supposed to be a learning exercise, after all.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. “Right then,” he continued, after a moment. “What did Nick have to say for himself?”  
  
Right. The reason I’d come here in the first place.  
  
I couldn’t believe I’d almost forgotten.  
  
“He sends his greetings, Captain. He mentioned  you, Lieutenant Lysowksi, Seraph and Murphy specifically.” I’d made sure to look up Lieutenant Lysowski’s rank so I could refer to her properly. I wasn’t sure how well it would have gone down if I’d just called her Lysowski. Maybe I needn’t have worried. Maybe. Better safe than sorry, though, right? Corralling my wandering thoughts as best as I could, I carefully slipped the piece of paper Nick had given me out of the pocket of my bag, holding it out to Captain Cavendish. “He also asked if you would all get in touch with him. These are his contact details.”  
  
Captain Cavendish took the piece of paper, his expression unreadable as he scanned the information on there.  
  
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’ll pass the message on to the others.”  
  
“Thank you,” I echoed, relieved.  
  
While I could probably have tracked down Seraph and Murphy eventually — and I could probably have found out when Lieutenant Lysowski was next on-duty — I already knew what Captain Cavendish’s shift pattern was this week. Much simpler just to go and pay him a visit.  
  
In any case, my duty had been discharged. As soon as Captain Cavendish dismissed me, I would be on my merry way.  
  
I certainly had a lot to think about.  
  
“How was he doing?” the captain asked suddenly. “Did he seem… well?”  
  
Apparently, I wasn’t going to be leaving just yet.  
  
“He seemed well enough,” I said. Aside from being in a wheelchair, but I doubted that was news to Captain Cavendish. What else could I tell him? “As far as I could tell, he has a good rapport with his team, and he seems to enjoy his work.”  
  
“That’s good,” he said, his smile softening a little, becoming more natural. “I’m glad Northeast is working out for him.” He gave me a speculative look. “So, if you don’t mind me asking — and feel not to answer if you’d rather not discuss it — what did he do during your evaluation?”  
  
Huh. He was giving me permission not to answer? That was… different. I was starting to think that Captain Cavendish was a little eccentric. But that thought felt dangerously close to criticism of a superior, so I shoved it aside as best as I could.  
  
I considered for a moment, the novelty of having the choice almost making me want to refuse, just to see what would happen.  
  
(I hadn’t been punished for not answering Dr Ross when she’d asked me what I was most afraid of during the psychological evaluation, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was a scientist, not a soldier. Anyway, just because I hadn’t been punished for it yet, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be at some point in the future.)  
  
(Maybe they just preferred to leave disciplinary matters to the team leader.)  
  
(My stomach twisted queasily, but I ignored it.)  
  
I thought about it for a moment, toyed with the idea of telling him I’d rather not say, but… Honestly, it wasn’t like I really minded. And Captain Cavendish seemed genuinely curious, although I suspected that was more a case of wanting to know how his former subordinate was doing than out of any specific interest in my evaluation.  
  
“Combat assessment and disaster simulation,” I said.  
  
“Combat assessment?” he repeated, eyeing me dubiously.  
  
“The neural interfaces Nick works on are used to control a robot,” I explained. “They use it as an animate training dummy during the evaluations.” I shrugged. “Less chance of someone being hurt if a cape’s powers go out of control while they’re sparring.”  
  
“Was Nick operating the robot?” Captain Cavendish asked, looking intrigued.  
  
“Yes,” I said, feeling some of the tension ease a little as I thought about some of the highlights of that little bout. To my surprise, I felt my expression soften into a smile. I hoped the captain didn’t think I wasn’t taking him seriously or, worse, was mocking him. “He gave me quite a fun workout, actually.”  
  
Maybe it hadn’t been the most challenging bout ever, but there’d been a… rhythm to it, a back and forth that I’d found almost relaxing.  
  
Captain Cavendish looked briefly surprised, and he then laughed a little.  
  
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said. “And the disaster simulation?”  
  
“It started out as a search and rescue operation,” I said. “A mock-up of civilians trapped in a collapsed building using life-sized dolls.” I remembered the fake blood and the fairly real-looking compound fracture one of the dolls had had. “Fairly realistic-looking dolls.” Pretty damn heavy ones as well. They must have been weighted, considering how hard they were to shift. “It was an interesting challenge.” And, in the process, I’d figured out that I could use metal to bind the pieces of something into a whole object, which I could then reinforce. As far as I was concerned, that alone made the whole exercise worthwhile.  
  
“I’m sure you did well,” he replied, and I thought he was trying to be reassuring. A thoughtful expression settled over his face as he continued: “But you said it started out as a search and rescue operation? Did they change things up on you?”  
  
That was one way of putting it.  
  
I nodded. “They faked an explosion; made it look as though a wall had collapsed on Nick. The bioengineering group had cooked up some pretty convincing-looking fake injuries made out of some kind of lab-grown tissue. Oh, and blood. Lots of blood. They wanted to see how I would react to something I thought was a real disaster.”  
  
“That must have been hard,” Captain Cavendish said, sympathetically.  
  
I shrugged, not really knowing how to respond to that. Sympathy always seemed a little too close to pity for my liking. Not that I really had a whole lot of experience with it.  
  
“The hardest part of it was thinking it was my fault,” I offered, mainly for something to say.  
  
And because it was true.  
  
I’d always had problems lying to people with authority over me. It was why I was so worried about the upcoming meeting with Ms Grant and Mr Reid. If they asked me about my house burning down… If they asked me if I knew anything…  
  
Fuck.  
  
I really hoped I did a better job of controlling my stupid mouth than I’d done during this conversation.  
  
“I can imagine,” he said quietly, and now the look in his eyes was distant. “There’s nothing like the sensation of knowing that your actions got someone else hurt. Or worse.”  
  
Was he speaking from experience there? My gut said yes. The pain in his voice was too raw, too real, to come from mere hypotheticals, of from something he’d only experienced at a remove. My heart went out to him.  
  
“No, there isn’t,” I found myself saying, belatedly realising that I should have just kept my mouth shut when he turned that spotlight stare on me again, studying me like he was cataloguing my every tic and tell.  
  
God-fucking-dammit!  
  
What had I *just* told myself?  
  
Watch your tongue, idiot.  
  
I had to be better than this. I had to be.  
  
Maybe more coffee would help.  
  
My heart was in my mouth as Captain Cavendish studied me, but in the end all he said was: “Did you talk to Nick much outside the tests?”  
  
“Yes, a bit,” I said, relieved that the question was so innocuous. “Turned out we had a few things in common.”  
  
“Oh?” he asked, raising his eyebrows curiously.  
  
Wasn’t it obvious?  
  
“Well, Brockton Bay for one,” I said. “And both being army brats for another.”  
  
The captain got kind of a pinched look on his face when I said that, and I had no idea why. I didn’t think I’d said anything that could have made him mad.  
  
Who the fuck knew?  
  
Maybe I could ask one of the other Wards for help figuring Captain Cavendish out. Dean had seemed comfortable being around him, chatting with him. Maybe I would ask Dean. More information could only be a good thing, right?  
  
“Well, thank you for passing on his message,” Captain Cavendish said. To my great relief, he smiled at me. Maybe he hadn’t been angry after all. Maybe I just couldn’t read him for shit. “And for indulging my questions,” he added.  
  
“You’re welcome, Captain,” I said, cursing the way I sounded so hesitant. Was he dismissing me? That sounded like a dismissal, but I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t really want to guess… “Am I dismissed?”  
  
He stared at me, opened his mouth, closed it again, sighed, and smiled at me.  
  
“Yes, Astrid,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re dismissed.”  
  
“Thank you, Captain,” I said, relieved.  
  
Now, wasn’t that so much simpler?  
  
I wondered why he hadn’t just said that in the first place.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

As I walked away from Captain Cavendish’s office, my mind returned to the problem that had been nagging at me, the strangeness of how he and Seraph had been interacting, and something clicked into place.  
  
I thought… I wasn’t certain, but I might have been wrong to label Seraph’s attitude as disrespectful.  
  
Despite her cavalier attitude, despite her lack of fear towards the captain, despite her outright irreverence, Seraph somehow didn’t actually seem to lack respect for him. And, last week, in the canteen, when he’d instructed her and Murphy to confine any issues they had with command decisions to their debriefs, they’d both seemed to treat the edict as an order. Everything about the way they’d responded had said they’d recognised his authority.  
  
But… how was that possible?  
  
‘Respect comes from fear,’ Dad had always told me.  
  
But maybe it didn’t… have to?  
  
Maybe… Maybe there was another way?  
  
And maybe — just maybe — fear and respect weren’t as closely intertwined as I’d always been led to believe.  
  
Huh.  
  
Definitely something to think about.


	33. Aphenphosmphobia 3.06

As I entered the Wards HQ, I recalled that my phone had buzzed a couple of times while I’d been in Captain Cavendish’s office. When I pulled it out, I found a reminder about my meeting with Ms Grant and Mr Reid. And a handful of messages from Dennis. I didn’t really want to think about the meeting right now, even though I should probably be working on getting my story straight in case of awkward questions like ‘why did your family burn their house down and go on the run?’ So I focused my attention on the messages.  
  
The first one said: ‘Oh coffee, thou most life giving-est of elixirs. Come to me, sweet black nectar, come to me…’  
  
I guessed that meant he’d found the fresh pot of coffee I’d put on to brew before going off to see Captain Cavendish. I shook my head at his over the top…. Dennis-ness, amused despite myself. And I outright grinned at the next one.  
  
‘How strong did u make this?!?!?!?! Think I’m having heart palpitations. Pls… snd… hlp. Dying… Dying… Ded.’  
  
Idiot.  
  
‘PS — Tell Chris I leave him my extensive game collection on condition he teach u not to suuuuuck at them. As much. Not to suck as much. Because… damn, that was some impressive suckage. Like, hard vacuum levels of suckage. Srsly. So just tell Chris to do his best.’  
  
Asshole!  
  
‘OK, I take that back. Well… no, u still suck at gaming. But, aside from that terrible flaw, in all other respects u are like unto a goddess among mortals. Truly, this graceless earth has been blessed a thousandfold by ur presence.’  
  
What the fuck?  
  
Seriously.  
  
What the actual fuck?  
  
And, while I thought about it, what was up with his weird mix of proper English and text-speak? I mean, one or the other, I could understand, but mixing them up like that was just peculiar. And it really grated on my nerves. If it had all been text-speak, I would have been able to tune it out, but as it was I just wanted to correct his spelling and capitalisation, which…  
  
Which was the whole fucking point, wasn’t it? To be as aggravating as possible.  
  
Well, it was fucking working. Dammit.  
  
But I would just have to learn to ignore it. Because if I gave even the slightest hint that it bothered me, he’d no doubt do it all the more.  
  
I tried not to think about it as I scrolled down to the next message, in the hope that might shed some light on his ramblings. Was he sleep texting? Um… Actually, I kind of hoped not. Because if he was, that said worrying things about what was going on in his subconscious. Very worrying things. Things that I in no way wanted to actually think about.  
  
The next message consisted purely of emoticons. Some wiggly lines, followed by a thumbs up.  
  
Huh. Maybe he really was sleep-texting.  
  
With the next one, however, enlightenment dawned.  
  
‘Srsly, thnx. U really saved my bacon. ;-D’  
  
Right. Wiggly lines equals bacon. Got it.  
  
Wait. Saved my…  
  
I groaned softly at the pun. And that smiley really did look like the platonic ideal of a shit-eating grin. Like the grin I’m sure had been plastered all over his stupid freckled face when he wrote that text.  
  
Still, I guessed I was glad that he’d apparently appreciated the bacon and egg sandwich I’d left for him. I still wasn’t entirely sure why I’d done that, but it wasn’t like it was really any trouble. I’d been making breakfast for myself, anyway. Plus, I figured he’d probably be somewhat worse for wear when he finally did rejoin the land of the living and, unlike me, he had school this morning.  
  
I supposed I should probably reply.  
  
I was just tapping out a ‘you’re welcome’ when I entered the kitchen — more coffee sounded pretty fucking good right now — and stopped dead.  
  
Oh, for fuck’s sake!  
  
I quickly amended my text to: ‘You’re welcome, asshole. What the fuck did you do to the kitchen? It looks like a fucking bomb hit it!’  
  
Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but only a slight one. Seriously. All that fucker had to do was pour himself some coffee and retrieve the sandwich I’d left on a plate next to the coffee machine, with a helpful little note identifying it as being for him. Maybe pour some juice. Or some of that toxic swill he liked to drink. Whatever. He didn’t need to pull random shit out of cupboards and leave it scattered hither and yon. What had he even been looking for in the first place?  
  
**And** he hadn’t even put his dirty cutlery and crockery in the sink, let alone actually washing it the fuck up.  
  
Was he raised in a fucking barn? How hard was it to clear up your own damn mess? Why his parents hadn’t knocked that slovenliness out of him I had no fucking clue. Maybe they’d tried, and he was just stubborn. From everything I’d seen so far, I could well believe it.  
  
Well, I sure as shit wasn’t going to clear up after him. I wasn’t his fucking maid. I was just going to get my coffee, clear up my own stuff, and go.  
  
Yep. That was exactly what I would do.  
  
Even if that mug was likely to stain if it was just left like that for hours.  
  
And even if there were crumbs all over the table that could attract who knew what kind of vermin. And a couple of sticky patches on the counter. And…  
  
Oh, fuck it. Who was I kidding? There was no way in hell I could bring myself to leave my kitchen in such a state. Well, it was technically the PRT’s kitchen, I supposed, but, like I’d told Dennis last night, I was the one fucking living here.  
  
According to the schedule I’d memorised, the cleaners were due to come by in about an hour. (That made sense. The Wards should all be in school by now, so the place was supposed to be empty.) But it would drive me crazy knowing that the mess was just… sitting there. Taunting me.  
  
Anyway, would the cleaners even deal with this kind of thing? I wasn’t sure. I made a mental note to try to find out exactly what their remit covered. I was sure the information must be somewhere in the pile of stuff I’d been given. Or somewhere on the PRT internal website. I’d figure it out.  
  
But, in the meanwhile, it looked like I had some cleaning to do.  
  
And as I stomped about setting the kitchen to rights, one thought was uppermost in my mind.  
  
Dennis was going to pay for this.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I tried to tell myself I wasn’t nervous as I made my way towards Ms Grant’s office. I wondered glumly why I even bothered. It wasn’t as if I actually had a hope in hell of convincing myself. Nor was it as if my nervousness was in any way unfounded. If this meeting went badly — if I let too many of my secrets slip — I could end up in a fuck of a lot of trouble. Best case scenario, I just ended up being disciplined for keeping those secrets in the first place. Worst case scenario…  
  
No, I didn’t want to think about the worst case.  
  
Shit.  
  
I needed to calm the fuck down, or Ms Grant and Mr Reid would only need to take one look at me to realise that there was something amiss.  
  
I tried to take deep, calming breaths, but that did sweet fuck all for my anxiety levels. What helped more was letting my power dance through the building, tracing out the shape and feel of it, pinging it lightly just because I could; because I wanted to. Because it really fucking felt like I was making it mine, and while I knew I should probably find that sensation thoroughly disturbing — and almost certainly would, afterwards — right at this very moment it was just… comforting.  
  
Steadying.  
  
At the very least, it grounded me enough that I could shove away the stupid urge to confess all to Ms Grant and let her be the arbiter of my fate.  
  
Not that there was any real danger of me giving into that ridiculous imp of the perverse. I wasn’t that much of an idiot.  
  
Okay. I could do this. I could. More importantly, I had to do this. It wasn’t like I could just not show up. Anyway, all that would achieve would be to delay the inevitable. So there really was no point in all of this repetitive, unproductive mithering.  
  
Against my will, I heard my father’s voice whispering at the back of my mind.  
  
‘If you don’t stop that whining, girl, I’ll give you something to fucking whine about. Now, stop sniffling and stand up straight. Straighter. I don’t care if it hurts. It’ll hurt a damn sight more if you don’t do what you’re told. Have you forgotten what I taught you? You can’t afford to show any signs of weakness. Not ever. You’re swimming with sharks, girl, and if there’s even the slightest trace of blood in the water, they will tear you apart. So get your goddamn feelings under control, quit mithering and finish the fucking mission.’  
  
Thanks, Dad. Thanks a fuck of a lot.  
  
But, despite the chaotic mess of confused anger and other emotions welling up inside me, that echo of a memory did help me straighten my spine, smooth my expression and stride through the corridors like someone who didn’t feel like she was heading to her doom.  
  
Yet another thing to try not to think about.  
  
That worked about as well as you’d expect.  
  
In an effort to distract myself — if only by giving myself something else to worry about — I checked over my outfit one more time. In general, I’d taken to wearing one of the generic, PRT-issued cape costumes whenever I left the Wards HQ, but this had felt like the kind of situation for which civilian attire would be more appropriate. And something smart; not just my usual jeans and T-shirt combination. (Or jeans and sweatshirt, depending on how many bruises I had on my arms that day, but whatever. Same principle.) This was kind of an important meeting, after all, and I’d thought that I should probably try to make an effort. After a not inconsiderable amount of dithering, I’d eventually opted for a pants suit. But now I was second-guessing myself, wondering if the pants suit was actually a little too much. If it looked like I was trying too hard.  
  
Maybe I should’ve just gone for jeans and a blouse instead.  
  
Goddammit. What the fuck did I know about dressing up?  
  
Shit. I’d probably spent more time thinking — worrying — about what to wear for this meeting than about every other piece of clothing I’d worn in my whole life to date. Combined. Usually, the only things I bothered about when it came to what I wore involved making sure I could move easily in it and that it was clean and in a decent state of repair.  
  
Last Saturday’s shopping trip had definitely been an exception. But I’d only gotten so caught up in that — in actually giving a damn about how I looked — because of Victoria. And her aura.  
  
But I really didn’t want to think about that right now.  
  
(If I thought about it, I’d just end up blushing in mortification over how ridiculously I’d acted; cringing at the way I’d all-but fawned over a girl who apparently just saw me as a fucking project. I wasn’t mad at her, of course. Why would I be? She’d just been trying to do something nice, and I’d known it hadn’t really meant anything when she’d called me her friend. Anyway, whatever. It didn’t matter. Sure, if pressed, I’d have to admit that, nerve-wracking as the experience had been at times, the day out had actually been kind of nice. But Victoria had done her good deed now and so I doubted I’d see her again unless it was in costume.)  
  
(Actually, I supposed both Dallon sisters had done their good deeds that day. And Amy — or should I think of her as Panacea in that context? — raging bitch though she was, had done a damn sight more than play personal fashion consultant and buy me some expensive clothes.)  
  
(I wondered again how I could ever hope to pay her back.)  
  
(But that was a problem for another time.)  
  
Anyway, now I was standing in front of Ms Grant’s door. There was no fucking point in worrying about such trivial details like what I was wearing. Far better to worry about not-so-trivial details like what my status would be when the meeting was over. Would I still be a Ward or would I be a prisoner? Would I be sleeping in my own room tonight, or would I be locked in a cell somewhere in the (basement) depths of the building?  
  
Was I being paranoid, or not paranoid enough?  
  
Well, there was only one way to find out…  
  
I raised my hand and knocked firmly on the door.  
  
Somewhat anticlimactically, there was no reply. Frowning, I glanced at my watch. I was a little early, but not massively so. Only a few minutes. Had Ms Grant been called away somewhere? Had the meeting been moved? Suddenly paranoid that I might have missed an update, I checked my calendar. Nope, still the same place and time: ten am, Ms Grant’s office.  
  
I was just about to knock again when a muffled voice from inside called:  
  
“Come in.”  
  
So Ms Grant was in there after all. As I entered her office, I idly wondered if she’d been in the middle of devouring one of those chocolate digestive biscuits she loved so much; if that had been why she hadn’t answered right away. And then I got a good look at her: red and watery eyes, blotchy face, sodden remains of a tissue clutched tightly in one hand. Was she…? Had she been crying?  
  
I stopped dead in the middle of the room, feeling like an intruder even though she’d invited me in.  
  
“Ms Grant, are you alright?” I asked before I could think better of it.  
  
Idiot! I berated myself. Of course she fucking wasn’t alright. She’d been crying, for fuck’s sake. Only a complete and utter fool would ask such a ridiculously stupid question. Anyway, I very much doubted she wanted to tell me about it.  
  
She gave me a watery smile that didn’t even begin to touch the grief in her eyes.  
  
“No, Astrid, I’m not. But just give me a few minutes to go and wash my face and pull myself together, and then I can least manage professional.”  
  
When she got to her feet and made her way to the door, even the clack of her heels seemed muted, somehow. I moved aside to let her pass me.  
  
Impulsively, I blurted: “Is there something I can do?”  
  
Pausing in the act of reaching for the door handle, she sighed heavily, and it was almost a shock to realise all over again just how small she was. I mean, I knew that, obviously I knew that; I couldn’t very well miss it. Even with those skyscraper high heels of hers, she was a tiny little thing, especially compared to me. But she had such presence, such force of personality, that most of the time her diminutive physical stature didn’t even register. Now, though, she seemed… diminished. Dimmed. Dulled.  
  
My heart went out to her.  
  
“No,” she said quietly. “There isn’t anything anyone can do.” Her hand still on the door handle, she turned to give me another watery smile. “But I appreciate the thought. Just… make yourself comfortable, alright?” She waved her other hand vaguely in the direction of the chairs. “I won’t be long.”  
  
“Thank you, Ms Grant,” I murmured.  
  
Once she’d disappeared off to recover her composure, I went to sit down, only to pause again when a massive yawn stretched my jaw.  
  
Shit.  
  
Okay, change of plan.  
  
I set my bag down and went to make some coffee. I felt a moment’s trepidation as I moved around to Ms Grant’s side of the desk, like I was doing something wrong (like I was going to get caught and punished), but I ignored it. She’d given me her permission. I wasn’t breaking any rules here. And… even if I had been, I was starting to think that Ms Grant wouldn’t actually have me disciplined for it. Not for something minor, anyway. She’d probably just lecture me.  
  
Heh. ‘Just.’ I thought I’d almost rather endure a beating than have to sit through another one of those talks. She had a way with words, that was for sure. Not as passionate as Yasmeena, perhaps, but much more… relentless.  
  
But she didn’t really seem like she was in the mood to lecture anyone this morning. Honestly, I doubted she’d wanted to come into work at all. I had to admire her a little for coming in anyway.  
  
There was plenty of water in the kettle; Ms Grant must have just refilled it, perhaps in preparation for the meeting. I wondered if she would want a drink as well. There was a mug on her desk; it was empty, but still warm. She must have just finished a cup of tea, which didn’t tell me a damn thing about whether or not she’d want another one. It wasn’t exactly unusual for her to make a second cup the instant she finished the first. Ms Grant drank a fuck of a lot of tea. Not that I had any room to talk given how much coffee I’d been knocking back lately. I supposed I could wait until she got back to ask her if she wanted a drink, but… maybe she’d appreciate coming back to find one ready and waiting for her. With that decision made, I turned my attention to my task. I didn’t usually make tea, but I’d seen her brew enough cups of the stuff that I was confident I could make it to her preferences.  
  
I tried not to wince as I added the sugar, reminding myself that taste was a subjective thing. At the same time, I also tried to forget that sweet things tasted really good when I dialled my power up. Sugar felt… nice. Like warm sunlight or a song played in tune. Like a rich, deep purple.  
  
(But that made me think of the purple streaks in Melanie’s hair, and then I wanted to wince for whole other reasons, my cheeks burning at the memory of how I’d tripped over my own tongue trying to tell her I liked the colour. Fuck. What kind of unsocialised half-wit was I, that I couldn’t even express a simple sentiment like that without fucking it up? Of course, it hadn’t helped that she’d reminded me of Victoria, a little, although I wasn’t sure exactly why. The two of them didn’t look that similar, even if they apparently shared the skill of being able to wear expensive-looking fancy clothes very well indeed. Mannerisms, maybe? Personality? Who the fuck knew. All I knew was that I’d barely been able to say two words to her without getting flustered, and I sure as shit couldn’t blame that on any goddamned aura.)  
  
(Maybe it was her confidence; the way she practically radiated a feeling of being at ease in her own skin.)  
  
(Maybe I’d just been tongue-tied with jealousy.)  
  
(Maybe it really was that simple.)  
  
When I returned the sugar packet to its place — wedged into the corner of an overstuffed shelf — I was surprised to realise that it had been resting on a small stack of mismatched coasters. After a moment’s deliberation, I retrieved two of them to put beneath the mugs. I didn’t think Ms Grant would mind. And she was free to use hers, or not, as she chose. But it made me feel better to have one. Sure, the desk was so battered, scarred and stained that another mark here and there probably wouldn’t make much difference in the grand scheme of things, but at least now I wasn’t actively contributing to its unfortunate condition. That was something, right?  
  
(Sometimes, the best outcome you could hope for was simply one where you didn’t fuck something up even more than it already was. Sometimes actively unfucking a thing simply wasn’t an option. Sometimes all you could do was try not to make a shitty situation even worse.)  
  
(And sometimes, as pitifully inadequate a goal as that was, you couldn’t even manage that much.)  
  
During my last visit, I’d ended up making myself a coaster out of my metal. Ms Grant had seemed amused. I’d offered to make one for her as well, but she’d demurred.  
  
If the desk had been metal, rather than wood, I could have fixed it. As it was, though, chances were I’d just end up making it worse if I tried. Would that change with practice? Would I eventually be able to manipulate non-ductile, non-malleable materials without making them crumble? I hoped so. I certainly intended to try. I doubted it would ever feel as simple, as natural, (as utterly fucking amazing) as bending metal to my will, but any improvement at all would be a good thing.  
  
There was a mostly-empty packet of biscuits on the desk, together with a fuck of a lot of crumbs. The crumbs went into the bin and the last couple of biscuits went on a saucer, which I positioned within easy reach of where Ms Grant would be sitting. The empty packet… Well… Technically that also went in the bin, but it wasn’t exactly intact when it did so.  
  
(Disintegrating it felt really fucking good. More importantly, it helped to steady my stupid nerves, which was something I seriously fucking needed right now. I wasn’t going to make it a habit or anything, but indulging just this once wouldn’t do any harm.)  
  
Partly out of curiosity, partly because I just felt like fixing something, I turned my attention to the desk’s most recent tea stain; the one that had been beneath Ms Grant’s mug. As I’d suspected, it was still liquid. More to the point, it was still fresh enough that I could separate it from the desk without too much trouble. So I did.  
  
(And maybe it didn’t feel good in the same way as disintegrating the empty biscuit packet had done, but it made me happy nonetheless. For once in my life I’d achieved a net positive. I’d actually made something better by my actions.)  
  
(But I was probably being ridiculous.)  
  
By the time I’d settled into a chair and started mainlining my coffee, I heard the familiar staccato clacking of Ms Grant’s heels in the corridor outside. I automatically went to stand to attention, but I made myself stop and settle down again. She’d told me I didn’t need to do that. Along with an acerbic comment about not wanting to get a crick in her neck looking up at me, which I thought was supposed to be a joke. I tried to appease the nagging feeling that I was being disrespectful by setting my mug down on its coaster and sitting up straight in my chair. It didn’t help as much as I’d hoped.  
  
(Thinking about disrespect sent my thoughts looping back to earlier, to the feeling of revelation I’d had as I left Captain Cavendish’s office. Could it really be true, what I’d thought? That irreverence didn’t necessarily mean disrespect? That respect didn’t have to come from fear?)  
  
(That Dad might have been wrong?)  
  
(I was going to have to think it over. For a start, I had a week’s worth of interactions to pore over for clues, to see if the various oddities I’d observed really did fit this new hypothesis.)  
  
(But not right now.)  
  
I glanced over my shoulder as the door opened. Ms Grant’s eyes were still a little red, perhaps, but they’d regained their usual sharpness (that piercing glint that made it seem like she could see through any kind of untruth or attempt to dissemble; that made my stomach start to tie itself in knots all over again) and her expression was composed. I approved of the way she’d pulled herself together despite her obvious distress.  
  
“I’m sorry about that,” she said briskly, closing the door firmly behind her and striding towards her desk. Not that the office was really big enough for striding, but that was the impression she gave.  
  
“That’s okay, Ms Grant,” I murmured, feeling a little uncomfortable.  
  
Rather than taking a seat right away, she instead made a beeline for the kettle. She must not have noticed that her previously empty mug was now full again.  
  
“I made you some tea,” I said.  
  
She glanced at her desk, looking at first surprised, and then pleased.  
  
“So you did,” she murmured, giving me a brittle but genuine-seeming smile. “Thank you, Astrid.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” I said, feeling a tension between my shoulder blades I hadn’t even noticed until now ease a little at her apparent approval.  
  
“And you tidied up a little, I see,” she continued, her smile turning wry.  
  
“I hope that’s alright,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as uncertain as I felt.  
  
“Of course it is,” she replied, giving me an inscrutable look. “I’m glad you’re starting to feel a little more comfortable in here.”  
  
Was I?  
  
“I suppose I am,” I murmured, a little surprised.  
  
I still hadn’t quite figured Ms Grant out, but as far as I could tell, she genuinely seemed to want to help. And I generally appreciated the way she said exactly what was on her mind. Conversations were a lot less stressful when I didn’t have to guess at what the other person was really thinking. Even though that same blunt forthrightness could be a double-edged sword sometimes, and not just when she was telling me off.  
  
For example, the way she made absolutely no bones about the fact that she considered me to be a fucking victim.  
  
God, that pissed me off so much. Although I supposed I only had myself to blame. That was the story I’d gone with, after all. Could I really blame other people for buying into it? Maybe not, or at least not reasonably, and yet…  
  
But this was not something I should be thinking right now. Especially when I was sitting across from someone as perceptive as Ms Grant. I could only hope my thoughts hadn’t been writing themselves across my face for her to pick apart.  
  
I took a sip of my coffee and tried not to worry.  
  
Ms Grant picked up her tea. I tried not to feel anxious as she tried it.  
  
“Just the way I like it,” she said, and quirked an eyebrow at me. “I see you’ve been paying attention.”  
  
I shrugged, not quite knowing what to say to that.  
  
“You make a lot of tea,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t spoken. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I added hurriedly. “I wasn’t criticising. It was just an observation. I didn’t-“  
  
“Astrid,” Ms Grant said firmly, thankfully cutting off the flow of my verbal diarrhoea.  
  
“Yes, Ms Grant?” I replied cautiously.  
  
“Take a breath.” I blinked at her for a moment, and then took a deep breath. In and out. It actually helped. (As did spreading my power through the building.) “Better?” she asked. I nodded, not sure I wanted to trust my voice right now. I could feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Good.” She nodded decisively and took another drink of tea. I retrieved my coffee and followed suit. “And I didn’t think you were criticising me,” she continued, after a moment. “Frankly, I look forward to the day when that might actually be a possibility.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“I’m not entirely certain I understand what you mean by that,” I said carefully.  
  
“I mean that you don’t need to be so polite and cautious all the time,” she said bluntly. “If there’s something you want to say, you should be able to say it. Within reason, obviously. I mean, I’m not talking about spilling PRT secrets to the world, or swearing a blue streak at Director Piggot.” I flinched before I could squelch the urge. Shit, even the thought of doing something like that was enough to send a chill down my spine. (To put a phantom hand around my throat.) Ms Grant’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and I had the uneasy feeling that she was cataloguing every aspect of my reaction; filing the observations away somewhere in that steel-trap mind of hers. “Don’t worry, I know you wouldn’t do any such thing,” she said after a moment; pronouncing the words like a judgement, like a statement of absolute fact.  
  
Which, well, I supposed it kind of was.  
  
(Even though something not unlike sheer fucking rage rose up in me at what lay beneath those words. The underlying assumption that I’d been so thoroughly broken.)  
  
(Then again, she would hardly have been the first person to have confused respect with meekness.)  
  
(To have assumed that obedience meant submission.)  
  
(To have mistaken patient endurance for the lack of will to resist.)  
  
“I wouldn’t,” I confirmed softly.  
  
(Not without a damn good reason, was my silent counterpoint.)  
  
(Because if disobedience was always punished, then rebellion without purpose achieved nothing more than pointless suffering.)  
  
(Or, to put it another way: if the price was non-negotiable, then you made absolutely fucking sure that what you ended up paying for was worth the cost. Even if all you were trying to buy was some goddamn self-respect.)  
  
“But you are allowed to express opinions,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Even if that involves criticising people in authority.”  
  
She’d expressed similar sentiments to me before, on more than one occasion. Such things were easy for her to say, though. She wasn’t part of the PRT hierarchy. No one here had the authority to discipline her for talking back to them. (Or because they were pissed off at someone else, or just having a shitty day, and I was the unfortunate soul who caught their eye. Or whatever fucking reason they came up with to justify using their authority against me.)  
  
(Just because Captain Cavendish didn’t seem to abide by the same philosophy as Dad, that didn’t mean the rest of the PRT was similarly eccentric. If I was going to test boundaries, I was going to have to proceed with caution.)  
  
I made a noncommittal but hopefully vaguely agreeable sounding noise, and continued to drink my coffee.  
  
She studied me over the rim of her mug. “You don’t agree?” she asked, in what was almost certainly a deceptively mild tone.  
  
Dammit.  
  
I actually started hoping that Mr Reid would show up sometime soon to head this game of twenty fucking questions off at the pass.  
  
Come to think of it: why wasn’t he here already? Had he gotten side-tracked?  
  
(Had there been a problem? Were they already preparing a cell for me?)  
  
No point in worrying about that right now. I had another problem to focus on.  
  
“It’s been my experience,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “That people in authority don’t always respond well to criticism.”  
  
Understatement of the fucking century.  
  
Ms Grant studied me. I tried not to feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. After what felt like a lifetime, she shrugged.  
  
“Some of them may not like it, but that’s their problem, not yours.”  
  
“Unless they-” I started to say, but broke off before I could finish the sentence.  
  
Unless they made it my problem.  
  
“What was that?” she asked.  
  
“Nothing,” I replied, mentally crossing my fingers that she wouldn’t ask me to elaborate.  
  
Another endless moment went by.  
  
“Astrid, no one here is ever going to hurt you for speaking your mind,” Ms Grant said quietly.  
  
Was I really that transparent?  
  
(Did I really seem that naive?)  
  
“I understand,” I said quietly; helplessly. What the fuck else could I say?  
  
Ms Grant sighed softly. “I know you don’t believe me,” she said, matter of factly. “And that’s okay. Maybe that’s one of the things you can work on with your therapist.” Her lips tightened fractionally. “When you’re finally assigned one.”  
  
She set her mug down — on the coaster, wonder of wonders — and reached for a bright yellow pad of post-it notes and a pen. She scribbled something in her drunk-spider scrawl and peeled off the note, sticking it to the frame of her computer monitor. When she was done, she picked up her mug again.  
  
“Is Mr Reid running late?” I asked, in an attempt to head off any further awkward questions or mentions of therapists.  
  
“No,” she said. “We’re going to his office at half past for the meeting. I asked you to come here first because I wanted to check in with you and see how you’re doing.”  
  
She certainly did seem to like checking up on me. I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that. On the one hand, it was fucking irritating that she seemed to think I couldn’t look after myself. On the other hand, it was kind of helpful to be able to ask questions of someone who wasn’t part of my chain of command, but who was familiar with all the the ins and outs of the Wards programme. However much she clearly disapproved of some aspects of it. She was obviously was out of the loop on some things, though, as evidenced by the fact that she kept trying to convince me they didn’t use corporal punishment here. Also, no matter how many times she called this a safe space, I really couldn’t believe that she wasn’t actually reporting on me to someone in the PRT. As long as I was sufficiently careful about what I said and how I said it, though, I thought it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.  
  
Despite her bluntness, no-nonsense attitude and occasional caustic remarks, Ms Grant was surprisingly easy to talk to. Which… was actually kind of a problem. She had told me — repeatedly — that I wouldn’t be punished for anything I told her, but I assumed that only went so far.  
  
I would just have to be careful. More careful.  
  
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said cautiously.  
  
“Your physical condition certainly seems to be much improved since I saw you last,” she observed, giving me what looked like an approving nod. “How did that come about?”  
  
“Panacea,” I answered simply.  
  
Ms Grant rolled her eyes. “I’d figured that much out all by myself,” she said dryly. “I was enquiring as to the circumstances.”  
  
I took a sip of coffee to give myself a moment to consider my answer carefully. Despite Dean’s lack of circumspection regarding my situation around his girlfriend (calm thoughts, I told myself; think calm thoughts), I didn’t want to say anything that would compromise his civilian identity.  
  
“Glory Girl heard that there was a new Ward and came to say hello,” I said, hoping that wasn’t going to start a mole hunt to figure out how she got hold of that information. “She invited me to join her and Panacea on their planned shopping trip. I needed to get some things anyway, so I accepted.” Like I could’ve said no to her if I’d tried. “During the course of the day, Panacea offered to heal me.” I shrugged. “Now I’m all better.”  
  
Ms Grant’s eyebrows shot up, and I belatedly realised that those last words had come out rather more bitter than I’d been intending. I tensed inside in anticipation of what she might say.  
  
“I thought Panacea didn’t take requests.”  
  
Okay, that wasn’t so bad.  
  
“I didn’t ask her,” I said stiffly. “Like I said: she offered.” Insisted, actually, but I didn’t want to get into that whole clusterfuck of a conversation. “I think the sight of me offended her delicate sensibilities.”  
  
“Well,” Ms Grant said after a moment. “However it came about, I’m glad that it did.” Sternly, she added: “And I do hope I’m not going to see you covered in bruises again from more so-called friendly sparring.”  
  
“I wasn’t covered in bruises,” I muttered somewhat mendaciously, doing my level best not to scowl. “Anyway,” I continued in a lighter tone, dredging up what I hoped was a passable smile. “I’ve sparred with the same person a couple more times since then.” I gestured towards my face with the hand not clutching my coffee mug. “And, as you can see: no bruises.”  
  
Not on my face, anyway. But Ms Grant didn’t need to know about the fading marks on my ribs. She’d only blow them way out of proportion. Besides, Sophia fucking Hess — I still couldn’t believe I’d actually known Shadow Stalker in her civilian identity and had no fucking clue — may have tilted me pretty damned effectively last time with her mind games, but that hadn’t stopped me giving the bitch a few bruises of her own. And, unlike with Chris, I didn’t feel the slightest bit bad about that.  
  
(I also wasn’t particularly worried about Aegis finding out. Sophia had just as much to lose as I did if that particular infraction came to light. Anyway, she didn’t seem like the snitching type. From everything I’d seen of her so far, her most likely response to me marking her would just be try her damnedest to return the favour. Which was absolutely fucking fine with me. Let her do her worst. I’d do the same, and we’d see who fucking came out on top.)  
  
(And then some of what she’d said came back to me, and the tang of anticipation started to curdle.)  
  
(Shit. That couldn’t be… It wasn’t because she was black, was it? That wasn’t why sparring with her felt so right, so natural? Why I was looking forward to doing it again? I mean, I’d felt exactly the same way even before she’d unmasked to me. Hadn’t I? So it couldn’t be due to the colour of her skin. At least, I didn’t think it was. But… But what if it was? What if I’d known, on some level, before she’d taken off her mask?)  
  
(What if I really was that fucked in the head?)  
  
(I mean, I knew I was fucked up. But I didn’t think I was fucked up in that way. I thought — hoped — I’d managed to dodge that particular bullet.)  
  
(But then there was the way I reacted to Aegis…)  
  
(Fuck. I’d… I’d have to think about this. I’d have to figure it out. And if that was the problem, if I hadn’t burned out that poison as thoroughly as I’d thought I had, there was only one thing I could do.)  
  
(I’d just have to try harder. And I’d have to get it right this time.)  
  
“Hmm,” Ms Grant said thoughtfully, thankfully pulling me out of my increasingly frantic spiralling. “So, how was the shopping trip?”  
  
It took me a moment to parse her question.  
  
“It was…” Exhilarating. Terrifying. Awesome. Awful. Fun. Nerve-wracking. Pleasant. Infuriating. Confusing as all fuck. “Nice,” I settled on, which wasn’t actually untrue, just… incomplete. “I like Victoria.”  
  
The truth in those last words surprised me a little, and the surprise distracted me enough that I let the silence afterwards stretch a little too much.  
  
“Not Amy?” Ms Grant asked, sounding interested.  
  
Shit.  
  
“I didn’t really talk to her all that much,” I equivocated. Technically true. Technically. “It was certainly good to get out of the building for a bit, though,” I temporised as I cast around for suitable distraction. “And my room feels a lot homier now I actually have some furniture.” She had previously expressed concern about the rather spartan nature of the rooms in the Wards HQ, so hopefully that would catch her attention.  
  
She studied me for just long enough that my pulse started to pick up, but then she nodded.  
  
“Good,” she said approvingly. “I’m glad you’re settling in a little.” I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the slight hesitation before she added: “Actually, on a tangentially related note, there’s something I’d like to address before we meet with Reid.”  
  
Oh. Oh fuck. Had Dennis been wrong? Was the PRT going to chuck me out on my ear after all? (Were they going to leave me out there where Dad could get his hands on me?) Or… Or did she mean that I would be moving to that cell I’d been worried about?  
  
No, that didn’t make any sense. Why would she be glad I was settling in if they were planning on uprooting me?  
  
Even as I clung to the inadequate lifeline provided by that scrap of logic, I had to swallow against a sudden lump in my throat. Forcing my features into a neutral expression, I kept myself as still as I could.  
  
“Is there a problem, Ms Grant?” I asked uncertainly. The instincts of a lifetime protested that I was skirting dangerously close to questioning authority here, that I should wait and see what she and Mr Reid had decided that I needed to know, but I ignored them. Ms Grant had never seemed to take issue with me asking questions. Quite the opposite, in fact. And I… I was worried.  
  
The silence before she answered did absolutely nothing to reassure me that I was just getting worked up over nothing.  
  
“No, not at all,” she said quietly, her voice surprisingly gentle. “I just wanted to make absolutely certain that you realise that your place here is safe. Both your position in the Wards, and your living quarters in the building. You don’t need to be concerned about either of those, Astrid.”  
  
That was good to know, I guessed. But… Should I be concerned about the fact that she felt the need to bring the subject up at all? Could she be trying to lull me into a false sense of security? That didn’t really seem like her MO, but then I’d already proved over and over again that I wasn’t exactly the best at reading people.  
  
“Thank you,” I said cautiously, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop.  
  
“I apologise if I worried you,” she said quietly. “It certainly wasn’t my intent. Quite the opposite, actually. I just wanted to reassure you that your situation here is secure.”  
  
“Is there a reason I might think otherwise?” I asked slowly, searching her face for clues. Was she suggesting that Mr Reid might **claim** otherwise? Or just imply it? Why would he do that? The obvious answer was as a threat, but what could he want from me that he’d feel he had to threaten me to obtain?  
  
My stomach churned with anxiety.  
  
A soft sigh escaped her lips.  
  
“And now I see I’ve only succeeded in worrying you further. I’m sorry. Let me try that again.” She thought for a moment. “No one’s going to threaten to turn you out on the street, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Fuck. She really was perceptive. I tried to not to react visibly to her words, but the wry smile she gave me told me I’d failed miserably. “It’s just that you’ve undergone a great deal of upheaval in a short space of time. In my experience, that often engenders a degree of uncertainty about one’s future. So I thought I might as well knock that on the head while we had the chance.”  
  
That sounded way too straightforward. She seemed to believe it, but…  
  
“That’s the only reason you brought it up?” I asked, scanning her face for any sign — any sign at all — of hesitation or untruth. “To reassure me?”  
  
“Yes,” she said, looking me directly in the eyes. A beat later, she smiled a little ruefully. “Even if it does seem to have had the opposite effect.”  
  
“That’s not… It isn’t…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the denial.  
  
Ms Grant rolled her eyes.  
  
“One of these days you’ll realise you don’t have to try to hide your concerns from me,” she murmured. “Maybe not anytime soon, but one day. I live in hope.” She shook her head.  
  
I glared before I could stop myself, dropping my gaze to my coffee cup the instant I realised what I was doing.  
  
Ms Grant sighed softly, and I half expected her to tell me, again, that she wasn’t going to punish me for getting mad with her, but she just shifted a little in her seat and drank more tea, snagging and dunking one of the biscuits before devouring it. I took the opportunity to try to regain some semblance of self-control.  
  
Once I shoved my irritation away, my thoughts kept circling back again and again to what she’d said before. I took a fortifying gulp of coffee — mournfully noting that it was almost gone — and looked up again.  
  
“I just wasn’t sure why you brought it up,” I said softly. “So I thought maybe there was a reason I should be worried.”  
  
“And then you started trying to work out what that reason might be?” If Ms Grant’s voice had been sympathetic, or gentle, or reassuring, I might have struggled to keep my temper in check. As it was, though, she just sounded… businesslike. Like she was simply trying to establish the facts of the matter.  
  
I appreciated that.  
  
“Yes,” I said, matching her tone. I studied her carefully, making no attempt to hide my scrutiny. “So, is there one?”  
  
“Not that I’m aware of,” she said. Which wasn’t the unequivocal ‘no’ I’d hoped for but, honestly, I doubted I would have been able to bring myself to trust such a definite response in any case. She wasn’t finished yet, though. “First of all,” she continued. “The PRT is currently responsible for your welfare.” A sharp kind of amusement glinted in her eyes. “Last I checked, throwing a minor out on the street to fend for herself is not the way to fulfil such a responsibility.” Well, when she put it that way… “Second,” she said, the amusement melting away to reveal a steely-eyed resolve. “Even if they wanted to try to put pressure on you for some reason — and I’m not saying they will; we’re talking purely hypotheticals here — they are legally forbidden from threatening to abdicate that responsibility. They’re not even allowed to imply that they might do such a thing. And if I catch even a hint of a suggestion of someone trying it, then I will personally see to it that the someone in question winds up with their head on a chopping block.” Her smile then was positively sharklike. “If they’re really lucky, that chopping block will only be metaphorical.”  
  
I blinked at Ms Grant, a little taken aback by the viciousness of her response.  
  
Apparently this was something about which she felt very strongly.  
  
(I couldn’t help wondering if she’d feel the same way if she knew who I really was. Or would she turn that determination towards making sure I was the one with my head on that possibly metaphorical chopping block?)  
  
“I see,” I said, belatedly realising that I should say something. “Um, thank you.”  
  
Ms Grant inclined her head to me.  
  
“My job is to look out for the Wards’ physical, emotional and mental wellbeing,” she said quietly. “I take my job very seriously.”  
  
“I can see that,” I murmured.  
  
I drank the rest of my coffee. Ms Grant checked her watch.  
  
“Right,” she said. “We don’t have to set off just yet, so let’s talk about something else.” I had to admit to a feeling of trepidation about what she would come up with next. “How did your meeting with the tutor go on Friday?”  
  
Oh, thank fuck. For once, she’d gone for something easy.  
  
That was probably just as well.  
  
I had the feeling that the meeting with Mr Reid would be anything but.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Left to my own devices, I might have dithered for a moment or two before knocking on the door of the meeting room; maybe taken a moment to check my outfit one more time. (Maybe taken a moment to claim the building more firmly with my power.) Ms Grant didn’t give me that moment. Almost before I’d registered the fact that we’d arrived at our destination, she strode up and rapped sharply on the door, barely even waiting for Mr Reid to tell us to come in before breezing through it.  
  
Okay. This was happening.  
  
Shit. I hoped I didn’t fuck it up too badly.  
  
Trying to ignore the feeling of foreboding hanging over me like a dark cloud, I followed in Ms Grant’s wake.  
  
“Good morning, Ms Grant,” Mr Reid said briskly, nodding at her.  
  
“Hello, Reid,” she said, in the same tone, settling herself into one of the two chairs in front of his desk and setting her bag down on the floor.  
  
Should I follow her example?  
  
No, I decided. Best to wait until Mr Reid said I could sit.  
  
My stomach twisting uneasily, I came to attention and met his gaze.  
  
(I noticed all over again what a bruiser of a man he was; the way his suit strained across his broad shoulders and barrel chest. His crooked, previously broken nose and the familiar-looking pattern of callouses on his hands told a story of violence dealt and received. He might not have been a brute, but I bet he knew how to hit.)  
  
(I resisted the sudden, stupid urge to press my hand to my ribs.)  
  
“Good morning, Sir,” I said quietly.  
  
“Hello Astrid,” he said, and I fancied that his voice was a few degrees warmer than it had been when he’d addressed Ms Grant. “How are you today?”  
  
“Fine, thank you Sir,” I said politely. “And yourself?”  
  
“Oh, can’t complain,” he said.  
  
“You’d better tell Astrid she’s allowed to sit down, Reid, or she’ll be standing there for this whole meeting,” Ms Grant cut in.  
  
I just about managed not to glower at Ms Grant, keeping my attention on Mr Reid. I was expecting him to be irritated at the interruption, but instead an almost stricken expression flickered briefly over his face. At least, that’s what I thought it looked like, but it was there and gone far too quickly for me to really be certain of what I saw.  
  
“Right, of course,” he almost mumbled, giving me a slightly sheepish-looking smile. “Please, take a seat.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, doing so.  
  
“And you really don’t need to call me Sir,” he told me, almost as an afterthought.  
  
What was it with these people? The thought was accompanied by a flare of annoyance that I shoved back down as best as I could. Apparently, I would just have to get used to the mild discomfort of not using proper forms of address. Which, I supposed, was better than the not-so-mild discomfort of being disciplined for disobedience or lack of respect. Then again, given what Ms Grant had said earlier, I didn’t think she’d actually let Mr Reid punish me for that. In fact, based on her apparent certainty that such things didn’t happen in the PRT building, he probably wouldn’t even try to do so in front of her.  
  
(Although, if he really did think it necessary to discipline me at any point, all he had to do was call me back when Ms Grant wasn’t there. So her presence wasn’t necessarily anything more than a delaying factor at best. Then again, Mr Reid had seemed completely and utterly gobsmacked when I’d shown him how Dad had striped my back with his belt. Maybe he wasn’t as comfortable with violence as his appearance might have suggested. Maybe he was too squeamish to mete out any serious punishments.)  
  
(Maybe.)  
  
(But there was little point in speculating. I just didn’t have enough data on him to reach any reliable conclusions.)  
  
I guessed every… organisation… had their own particular quirks. Persistent informality seemed to be one of the PRT’s.  
  
I briefly debated with myself whether to apologise, but decided against it.  
  
“Understood,” I said cautiously. “Should I address you as Mr Reid?” He hadn’t told me his rank, and I hadn’t been able to find it out since our previous meeting.  
  
“Just Reid is fine,” he said, still maintaining the appearance of affability. (Either he wasn’t actually annoyed, or he was doing a good job of hiding it. My instinctive feeling was that it was actually the former, but I didn’t know him well enough to be certain.) “It’s what everyone else around here calls me.”  
  
“Okay,” I replied, not sure what else to say. That seemed to suffice, however, because he gave me a slightly distracted-looking smile.  
  
I wished I had a clearer idea of his position in the hierarchy. He wasn’t in my chain of command, but he did have authority over me, and I didn’t know what that meant. I mentally kicked myself for not asking Ms Grant earlier. I’d meant to, but it had slipped my mind. Maybe I’d ask her when we left here.  
  
I expected Mr Reid — no, just Reid — to get to the point of the meeting right away, but he stayed silent, shifting a little in his chair as he fiddled around with some papers on his desk, seemingly straightening them up a little. Even though they were already ruler-straight. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think that…  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
I tried not to frown as I studied him.  
  
Was he… nervous?  
  
Before I could properly process that information, he at up straighter in his seat and cleared his throat.  
  
“Right,” he said. “There are some important things we need to go over today, so I suppose we should get started.” He drew in an audible breath, glancing down at the papers in front of him. Notes, perhaps? I couldn’t really look at them without it being blindingly obvious. “Let’s start with the most straightforward matter. The preliminary hearing about the removal order was held yesterday.”  
  
Even knowing that they couldn’t hand me over to Dad right now if they wanted to, it still felt like my heart leaped into my mouth when he said that. I tried not to swallow against the sudden lump in my throat.  
  
Fuck, I was nervous. Why was he leading with this anyway, rather than the fact that my fucking house had burned down? Maybe it was just what he said: that this was the easiest subject to address. I supposed it made sense to get the straightforward thing out of the way first.  
  
“How… How did it go?” I asked when the pause went on a little too long for my liking, cursing the way my voice quavered. But maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Maybe that tremor would help to sell the idea that I was actually concerned about the hearing, rather than about what may have been turned up during their investigation.  
  
“It went well,” Reid said, giving me an awkward-looking smile. “As we expected, the removal order was upheld. There’s going to be a follow-up hearing next week, but from the judge’s remarks and, uh, some other information that I’ll get to shortly, I think that’s going to be little more than a formality at this point.”  
  
I felt an unexpected pang as it hit me that, as well as not sharing the same surname now, Dad wasn’t my legal guardian any more. If I remembered correctly, the PRT would appoint someone to act in loco parentis for me. Since the removal order had been upheld, I supposed they’d probably be getting the ball rolling on that sometime soon.  
  
If it was up to me, they’d take their sweet time about it. I neither needed nor wanted a fucking guardian.  
  
Reid paused again, fidgeting with his notes as if they held some profound wisdom. Whatever he was hoping for, I wasn’t sure he found it, because he seemed distinctly ill at ease when he met my eyes again.  
  
“I see,” I said cautiously, because he seemed to need some prompting, and Ms Grant was saying nothing. “That… sounds like good news.”  
  
“Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. “Yes it is.” He shifted in his seat and took an audible breath. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, though.” I stiffened, my pulse pounding in my ears. The silence stretched long enough that I started to wonder if he was waiting for me to ask, but before I could finish the thought, he blurted out: “Your house was burned down.”  
  
Even expecting the words, actually hearing him say them aloud still shook me. I supposed that was probably a good thing. Hopefully it made my reaction seem more genuine. I went very still, controlling my expression as tightly as I could.  
  
(Earlier, when I’d been trying to prepare for this meeting, I’d briefly considered trying to fake a shocked reaction, but I was pretty sure my acting skills were nowhere near good enough to pull that off. Best just to keep it simple, and go with my usual reaction to being tilted: shutting the fuck down.)  
  
“What?” I said.  
  
“Reid!” Ms Grant snapped, sounding thoroughly appalled. She sighed heavily, and I saw movement in my peripheral vision as she shifted around in her seat to face me. I turned to look at her. “There’s no evidence to suggest your father and brother were in the house at the time,” she said briskly, but not without sympathy. “Or that they’ve been hurt at all. As far as we know, they’re both fine.”  
  
“That’s right,” Reid said quickly. “I’m sorry, I should have said that first. “There are no indications that anyone at all was caught in the fire, in fact. But I’m afraid it took quite a while for the firefighters to get there, and the house itself has been pretty much destroyed.” He took a deep breath. “Also, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your father and brother seem to have disappeared. We haven’t been able to find any trace of them, and we haven’t been able to get in contact.” He looked at me like he was expecting something, but I just stared at him, not sure what I could safely say. “Like Ms Grant said, though,” he added, in what I thought was supposed to be a soothing tone. “There’s no evidence that either of them have been injured.”  
  
“I… see,” I said faintly. My chest felt tight, like I’d been holding my breath. I made myself take a slow, deep breath, and another one, but it didn’t really help. I should probably say something else. I should probably ask something. Wouldn’t the normal thing be to ask something? Fuck, I couldn’t think straight right now. I needed to get it together. “What happened?” I made myself ask. “And… when?”  
  
I searched Reid’s face for any sign of suspicion; any sign that he didn’t believe my response. I didn’t see anything there but a metric fucktonne of awkwardness and something that looked way too close to pity for my liking.  
  
“It happened last Monday,” he began, looking extremely uncomfortable. “The fire probably started sometime late afternoon. And there’s no easy way to say this, but I’m afraid the investigation strongly suggests that it was set deliberately.”  
  
Was that an expectant look he was giving me? A suspicious one?  
  
“Oh,” I said.  
  
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this…” I hadn’t thought Reid could possibly have seemed any more ill at ease right now but, somehow, he managed it. “But does your family have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who might want to harm them?”  
  
He thought someone else had burned our house down? That Dad was a victim, not a perpetrator?  
  
Huh.  
  
I could work with that.  
  
“I’m not sure,” I said, warily, wishing I had a better read on Reid. No pun intended. He worked as an investigator now, Ms Grant had said, so I had to assume he was at least somewhat on the ball. Best to keep things vague where I could. The fewer concrete details I gave, the fewer opportunities he’d have to pick apart my story, such as it was. “Maybe. There’s a lot of gang activity around the area. And I’ve heard stories about what happens if you piss off the wrong people.”  
  
Yeah, I’d heard stories alright. Messages delivered. Examples made. It wasn’t even like my house was the first one in the area to have been set on fire, although incidents on that kind of scale didn’t happen all that often. If they did, maybe the police would actually have to get off their asses and pretend like they gave a damn about the area.  
  
Then again, lack of police presence was at least one of the reasons Dad had picked that neighbourhood, so I guessed that meant it was a feature, not a bug.  
  
Truth to tell, I was actually half-surprised that there’d even been an investigation, much less that it had been carried out so quickly. I wondered if the PRT had discreetly pulled a few strings to make it happen. After all, if there was a risk that someone might pursue a vendetta against one of their Wards, I guessed they’d want to know about it.  
  
Or had they — like Sophia — suspected me of setting the fire myself? Reid didn’t seem to be looking at me with anything other than extremely awkward sympathy, but that could just have been an act. And… this line of thought was not only unproductive, but was actively detrimental to my chances of being able to pull this off. So I banished it as best as I could.  
  
Reid just nodded like my answer didn’t surprise him, which was hopefully a good sign.  
  
“I should tell you,” he said, sounding almost reluctant to my possibly paranoid ears. “That, as part of the CPS investigation, we obtained your school records. And also those of your brother.” He paused briefly; just long enough for dread to start to congeal in my chest. Very carefully, he said: “There’s been a suggestion that Lance might have an affiliation with one of the gangs.” My stomach just about dropped through the floor. “Specifically,” he continued, looking like he wanted to speak the words about as little as I wanted to hear them. “Some of his friends are strongly believed to have ties to E88, and Lance himself has been involved in altercations with other students who potentially have… other gang affiliations.”  
  
Code speak for Lance hanging around with Empire motherfuckers who had a habit of getting into it with ABB motherfuckers. Or anyone else they didn’t like the look of. Not that they tended to escalate to outright brawling on school premises — no one wanted to run afoul of Shadow Stalker, after all — but they got fucking close to it on occasion. Apparently someone at the school had taken notice.  
  
Of all the fucking times for a staff member at Winslow to start giving a shit about what went on around them.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
How badly was this going to fuck me over?  
  
I sat up straighter in my chair, holding Reid’s gaze. It was actually an effort to unclench my jaw enough to speak.  
  
“My brother is an asshole who hangs around with other assholes,” I ground out. “His friends are not my friends.”  
  
My heart was racing, and I found it hard catch my breath. It felt like the walls were closing in. What if they didn’t believe me? What if they thought I was a fucking Empire groupie?  
  
(How severely would they punish me?)  
  
“What?” Reid blinked at me. “No, that wasn’t… I wasn’t suggesting they were.” Bizarrely, he actually smiled at me. “Your records actually imply the opposite.”  
  
Oh. Right. I guessed some of my own interactions with Winslow’s Empire contingent had made it into my records.  
  
Some of them had made a few overtures to me, sounding me out. Especially after I started getting a reputation for being something of a scrapper. (Scrapper, psycho bitch. To-may-to, to-mah-to.) I’d figured they were likely gearing up for a recruitment attempt, the way they did with Lance. The safe thing to do would have been to give them a polite ‘thanks, but no thanks’ — rinse and repeat as many times as necessary — and keep things civil. Friendly, even. Dad might have been on the outs with the upper echelons of the Empire — Kaiser in particular — but he didn’t have a problem with their rank and file members. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was why he’d never objected to Lance hanging around with the assholes he called his friends. That and the intel they could unwittingly provide. The only things Dad had actually forbidden where the Empire was concerned was outright joining the fuckers, and picking fights with them. So he would undoubtedly have approved of me making some kind of connection of my own.  
  
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  
  
(Fuck, Dad would probably have been happy for me to actually date one of those bastards if I’d been minded to. The very thought of it made me nauseous.)  
  
So, in one of my rare acts of overt disobedience, I’d wilfully broken that second rule.  
  
Finding an excuse to pick a fight hadn’t been difficult. I couldn’t exactly call them out on their fucked up philosophy — there was defiance, and then there was outright masochism — but there were certainly plenty of other reasons to choose from. Like the fact that some of the overtures made weren’t just about recruitment. And that some of the bastards making those kind of overtures really needed to be taught a lesson about respect.  
  
I knew there would be consequences for my actions, so I fucking made them count. And, fuck, smacking those Empire assholes down had felt good.  
  
(I was almost surprised Sophia hadn’t brought that up when she was busy calling me a psycho bitch. Maybe I’d throw it in her face the next time she accused me of being a fucking nazi.)  
  
There’d been a little fallout at school afterwards, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Loath as I was to admit it, one of the reasons why I hadn’t experienced much in the way of real retaliation was Lance. He’d convinced his friends that it had just been a personal matter, so there was need for anyone else to get involved. I knew he hadn’t stuck his oar in out of any sense of brotherly concern, though. He just didn’t want to risk losing his fucking friends if the situation turned into an all out vendetta.  
  
Anyway, I supposed calling it a personal matter was at least partly accurate. Even aside from their Empire connections, I had personally and with extreme prejudice believed that those assholes needed to be taken down a peg or three. Fortunately, Lance — and, more importantly, Dad — had seemed to accept that was the whole of it. That I’d gone after those fuckers despite them being Empire, rather than because of it. Not that either of them had been exactly pleased with me afterwards. Lance, because his friends hadn’t been happy about their comrades being humiliated, and Dad, because I’d broken one of his fucking rules. With both of them taking their displeasure out of my hide, I’d ended up paying dearly for that act of petty rebellion. But I had gained a few things in exchange. Self-respect, for one; confirmation that I was still able to choose to disobey, despite knowing what the consequences would be. The satisfaction of smacking down down some fuckers who really and truly deserved it. And, best of all, solidifying a reputation that might have made some other assholes think twice about trying to test my fucking boundaries.  
  
On balance, it had been worth it.  
  
And now it looked like I might have managed to buy myself a little something else.  
  
Trust.  
  
“I see,” I said quietly, relaxing minutely.  
  
“Not that we’re condoning violence,” Ms Grant interjected, her tone practically dripping with disapproval. A quick glance in her direction showed that her gaze was focused squarely on Reid, who looked vaguely guilty.  
  
“No, of course not,” he agreed hurriedly, but his words didn’t exactly ring with sincerity. I could have been wrong, but I kind of got the sense that Reid and Ms Grant weren’t exactly singing from the same hymn book here. I filed that titbit of information away. “But I’m afraid we’re getting a little side-tracked,” he continued. The look he gave me was cautious, maybe even wary. Suspicious, or just not sure how I was going to react? I had no fucking clue. “The reason I brought this up,” he said, still watching me carefully. “Is that, as you may be aware, there’s recently been an increase in tensions between E88 and the ABB.” And, apparently, E88 and the rest of the Brockton Bay gangs. “There has been a suggestion that the fire at your house might be connected to this.”  
  
I didn’t even have to pretend to look knocked for six by that. I just stared at Reid, my eyes wide and my mouth probably agape as I tried to process what he was telling me.  
  
If I understood this correctly, they thought that the ABB might have burned our house down in retaliation for whatever shit Lance had gotten up to with his Empire pals.  
  
Well… shit.  
  
That was fucking perfect.  
  
“You think someone might have set my house on fire to get at my brother?” I asked, my voice sounding oddly small.  
  
(Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I felt doubt. Could that actually be true? Could the fire have actually been enemy action, rather than simply Dad and Lance covering their tracks? The doubt lingered for a long moment, only to be shredded on the spines of common sense. No. Dad wouldn’t have been caught flat-footed like that. He and Lance were fine, I was sure of it.)  
  
(I wasn’t worried about them.)  
  
(Besides, Dad had left that voicemail message for me. That had been late evening, hadn’t it? And Reid had said the fire probably started in the afternoon. I briefly thought about asking if he could give me a more definite time, but dismissed the idea. I really didn’t feel like explaining about Dad’s message, and I wasn’t sure I had the mental capacity to come up with a convincing cover story right now.)  
  
(Anyway, I was fretting for nothing. They were okay. Absolutely fucking furious with me, no doubt, but fine.)  
  
(I certainly wasn’t going to try to reach out to check up on them. That would be the height of idiocy.)  
  
“At the moment, we don’t really know much of anything,” Reid said. “I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter.”  
  
Was that expectation in his voice? Was it suspicion? Either way, I thought I should say something in response.  
  
“I don’t know anything,” I said. “Lance and I… aren’t close.” Understatement of the fucking year. “And Dad only tells me what I need to know.” Reid’s eyes narrowed slightly, and my heart juddered in my chest. “You’re sure they weren’t hurt?” I asked, hoping to distract him, actually glad of the plaintive note in my voice this time. “Or… Or…”  
  
Shit. I couldn’t say it; couldn’t speak the word out of some stupid, childish, superstitious fear that speaking it aloud might make it come true.  
  
“There’s nothing to suggest they were even in the house at the time of the fire,” Ms Grant cut in, sympathy softening the lines of her face.  
  
“But you haven’t been able to get in contact with them,” I said, and then cursed myself for not knowing when to quit.  
  
The first rule of lying to authority: don’t say too much. Don’t volunteer information. Don’t answer questions they haven’t asked. Don’t address problems that haven’t come up. Don’t ask questions unless not doing so would raise suspicions.  
  
In short: say as little as possible. The more you said, the greater the chance that you’d trip over your words and end up talking yourself right into the fucking basement.  
  
I was shit at this.  
  
“No, we haven’t,” Reid said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean that they’re hurt.” He sat up a little straighter in his seat, and I suppressed a twitch at the movement. “Can you think of anywhere they might go if they thought they were in danger? Are there any other ways you can think of that we might be able to get a message to them? Family or friends, maybe?”  
  
“I don’t have any other family,” I said softly. (Well, no one I counted as family. And sure as shit no one Dad counted as family.) “And I don’t know their friends.” That was technically true. There was Dad’s squad, but I wouldn’t exactly count them as friends. Anyway, blabbing about his squad was the last thing I wanted to do. I shrugged. “I gave you all the contact details I have.” That… was a bit of a fib. Okay, it was an out and out lie. I’d given them the standard contact details, but I knew others. I just wasn’t planning on giving them to the PRT.  
  
(Anyway, Dad knew I was compromised. He wouldn’t trust any contact that came through those channels.)  
  
“There’s nothing at all? Not even the smallest detail?” Reid sounded almost hopeful, but I wasn’t sure why. From a paperwork point of view, surely it made things easier if Dad simply disappeared. It would mean he couldn’t contest the removal order, so it would be upheld by default. No muss, no fuss.  
  
“No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Ah well,” he said. “I had to ask.” He leaned forward a little in his seat. “Just so you’re aware, there’s a slim chance that the police might want to talk to you. Given what you’ve told me, though, I’m reasonably sure that won’t be necessary.”  
  
“I understand,” I said softly, panicking a little on the inside as I prayed that wouldn’t happen.  
  
Any kind of contact with the police was a fucking awful idea if you or your family were engaged in matters of… dubious legality.  
  
Okay, Dad ran a gang that ripped off other gangs and petty criminals, in addition to whatever other shit they got up to. And did shady mercenary work for equally shady people. Plus, on top of all of that, he was an ex-Empire cape, with all that entailed. So 'dubious legality' was a pretty huge fucking understatement. But whatever. Details.  
  
Even aside from that, though, there was the fact that Kaiser had his hooks into Brockton Bay PD. At least, that was what Dad had said. He wasn’t certain how deep those hooks went — whether it was just a case of a few sympathisers here and there, or something a little more organised — but it was just too much of a risk. If the wrong person made something like the right connection, things could get bad for me.  
  
Very fucking bad indeed.  
  
I tried not to remember the many, many times that Dad had warned me — warned both of us — about how catastrophic it would be to end up in Kaiser’s clutches.  
  
(‘If that fucker gets his hands on either of you, the best you can hope for is a swift death. But you can guaran-fucking-tee he won’t be nearly that merciful. Especially you, girl. So if and when you get your shot at him, don’t you fucking hesitate. You hear me? Whatever it takes.’)  
  
I wondered uneasily if he had agents in the PRT as well.  
  
As I tried unsuccessfully to calm myself down, I looked a little awkwardly at Reid, waiting for him to continue. He shuffled his papers.  
  
Ms Grant sighed; an impatient huff of breath.  
  
(I was impressed by the way she’d managed to pull herself together. To look at her now, you’d never guess that she’d been crying in her office not that long ago.)  
  
“Now that’s out of the way,” she said briskly, reaching into her bag to pull out a notebook and pen. “There are some details that we need to go over,” she said. “Reid, do you have the paperwork?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I don’t want a foster family,” I blurted out, only afterwards thinking to wonder if I’d been rude. I looked at Reid and Ms Grant, trying to gauge their reactions. “I mean, I don’t need someone to look after me. I can look after myself. I’m used to looking after myself. Dad works a lot, so…” I made myself stop rambling, take a breath, and try again. “Really, I’m fine with the current situation. You don’t need to go to any trouble.”  
  
“Astrid, this is our job,” Reid said, and I thought he was trying to sound reassuring. If that was the case, he should have picked some different fucking words to say. “It isn’t any trouble. And wouldn’t it be better for you to stay with a family, rather than living on your own in the Wards HQ?”  
  
But I **had** a family, shitty as they were. I didn’t want or need another one. And I certainly didn’t need someone watching over me to make sure I ate and brushed my teeth and did my laundry or whatever. I wasn’t a fucking child. I could take care of myself.  
  
I just wished I knew how to make them believe that.  
  
“I’m fine where I am,” I said quietly, hoping I didn’t look too much like a deer caught in headlights as I looked up at Reid. “Really. I’d prefer to stay here, if I can.”  
  
I had to admit, when I was busy fretting that the PRT might throw me out, it hadn’t even occurred to me that they might try to shove me into someone else’s home. Or, as Reid had put it ‘place me with a suitable foster family.’  
  
Fuck. I thought I would almost rather just be thrown out onto the street. At least that way, no one else would be at risk from Dad. But how could I explain that he was a threat without giving away all my secrets?  
  
“Astrid, no one’s going to try to replace your family,” Ms Grant said, and I only just managed not to start in surprise. How had she known what I’d been thinking? Fuck, was I that predictable to her? I fucking hoped not.  
  
“Although that might not be-“ Reid started to say, but Ms Grant shot him a quelling look, and he broke off. It was actually kind of funny to see a big hulking man like him cowed into silence by such a petite woman. I… honestly couldn’t say I wouldn’t have done the same in his shoes, though. Ms Grant could be somewhat intimidating, even if I didn’t think she’d actually have me disciplined.  
  
It was honestly a little weird.  
  
I wondered what Reid had been about to say before she’d shut him up? That I should replace my family? That I should… what? Try to put them behind me? Wipe away a lifetime’s worth of memories like they were just damage to be fixed?  
  
(Like the scars that Amy took away.)  
  
What the flying fuck did he know?  
  
“It’s all about trying to ensure that you have an environment that you can thrive in, not merely survive,” she continued, as if Reid hadn’t spoken. Thankfully, either she was oblivious to the direction of my thoughts, or she’d merely chosen not to comment on it. I hoped for the former. “Whether that turns out to be a family situation, or something a little more independent.” I felt a tension between my shoulder blades ease as she said that; a tension I hadn’t even really been aware of until it was no longer there. “The general policy is that a family environment is preferable in such cases where that can be arranged, but I’m aware that it’s not always the best solution.”  
  
She paused for a moment, holding my gaze.  
  
“It’s worth mentioning, though, that the care system is stretched pretty thin.” Seeming tired all of a sudden, she sighed softly. “There are always children in need of help,” she said quietly. I bet there were. Even though I wasn’t really one of them, which was a damn good reason for not saddling me with a foster family. Or saddling them with me. Better to give that place to someone who actually needed it. Who actually wanted it. “Trying to find foster care for older teenagers is hard enough as it is, and the fact that you’re a parahuman further complicates the matter.”  
  
I hadn’t even thought about that aspect of things. It made sense, though. Even aside from the whole identity protection issue, I guessed they couldn’t just hand a cape kid to a family of civilians and expect everything to be hunky fucking dory. If anything, it sounded like a disaster in the making. So how was this even an option? I guessed there would have to be some kind of vetting, and quite likely training. Did would-be foster parents tick a box on their application form to say they would be willing to take in parahumans? Were there PRT agents or even Protectorate capes specifically trained to act in that capacity if the need arose?  
  
(I had a sudden bizarre mental image of sitting at a breakfast table with Miss Militia and Armsmaster. In costume. It was so incongruous I almost laughed out loud.)  
  
(Fuck, I really was tired right now.)  
  
“Bearing in mind all of that,” Ms Grant said, her voice thankfully giving me the extra burst of willpower I needed to stop myself from succumbing to a highly inappropriate fit of giggles. “I have to say that I’d be surprised if foster care was actually a realistic possibility anytime soon.”  
  
Oh, thank fuck.  
  
For once, the system was apparently working in my favour. Yay for overloaded social care systems and bureaucratic inertia, I guessed.  
  
“I understand, Ms Grant,” I said. “Thank you for the information.”  
  
“Yes, thank you, Ms Grant,” Reid said firmly. Apparently, he’d decided to make another attempt to seize the conversational reins from her.  
  
Once we’d moved on to the nitty gritty of paperwork and procedure, Ms Grant had swiftly taken charge of the proceedings, something which, by turns, Reid seemed to find both an irritation and a relief. She certainly seemed more comfortable with the procedures and whatnot than he was, which, given her CPS background, didn’t really come as a surprise. Although, to Reid’s credit, he’d clearly spent some time brushing up on his knowledge since the last time we’d spoken.  
  
Or maybe he just did a better job of focusing on the details when he wasn’t sitting there staring at me wide-eyed like he’d never seen a fucking bruise before.  
  
I quickly shoved down the flare of anger that thought raised — I didn’t need his fucking pity — and smoothed my expression to what was hopefully an unremarkable curiosity as he turned his gaze to me.  
  
“On a related note,” he continued. “There are a few things that need to be sorted out before we can appoint a  guardian for you, so-“  
  
“You and I need to have a discussion about that, Reid,” Ms Grant broke in sharply. “I have a few concerns.”  
  
I had a feeling I knew what those were. Probably related to what she’d said to me on Monday, about the degree of legal power the PRT would have over me once everything had been processed. I couldn’t say I was entirely happy about the idea myself, but I didn’t exactly have a whole lot of options. Nor was I really in much of a position to negotiate.  
  
Reid tensed visibly at Ms Grant’s interruption.  
  
“I should have some time when we’re done here if you want to stay and discuss it now,” he said, sounding like the words were being dragged out of him. “Or we can meet later in the week if you prefer. Unless this is something we can discuss over e-mail.”  
  
“I’m afraid I have other commitments today,” she said. “But I’d prefer a face to face chat. Much less chance of miscommunications and misunderstandings that way. I’ll let you know when I’m free.”  
  
“Fine,” he said shortly.  
  
I wondered if I should be concerned about the fact that they were going to be having that discussion without me. I tried to tell myself that they’d probably inform me of anything relevant that came up; that this wasn’t any different from Dad telling me only what I needed to know. (Although he had started telling me more as I’d gotten older.) I tried to tell myself that there was no point in worrying about it.  
  
It didn’t really help.  
  
“As I was saying,” Reid said, his eyes and voice softening slightly as he returned his attention to me. “During this interim period, we’re going to have to arrange for some suitable adult supervision for you. Just to make sure you’re doing okay and that you have everything you need.”  
  
It took everything I had to keep my instinctive response inside.  
  
Jesus fucking Christ! How many times did I have to tell these people I could look after myself? What the fuck did I have to do to make them believe me halfway competent? I mean, I knew they were going to be sticking me with a guardian at some point, but I thought I’d at least have a little more time before I had to worry about someone looking over my shoulder all the time.  
  
I made myself take a breath before I answered.  
  
“I’m not sure that’s necessary,” I said, enunciating the words very, very carefully indeed in spite of the powerful urge to scream something rather less polite. “Like I said before, I can look after myself just fine.” Even my best efforts weren’t enough to quite keep the edge out of my voice. Nor could I stop myself adding: “Believe it or not, I’ve lasted a whole week without starving, burning the place down or ending up living in squalor.”  
  
I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth, of course.  
  
(I had a bad moment when it felt like the walls were closing in, when I could feel myself starting to tense in anticipation of pain. I made myself push the stupid fucking panic or whatever it was away. I wasn’t afraid of pain. I wasn’t. Anyway, Reid wouldn’t do anything now. And he was likely too squeamish to do anything serious, no matter how strong he might be.)  
  
But it was too late to take it back now. Anyway, it was amusing to see Reid wince at my sarcasm. And it was fucking gratifying to hear Ms Grant laugh quietly. She’d been so distressed earlier, and I’d bet that distress was still lurking beneath her façade. I was glad that I’d been able to bring her at least a brief moment of levity.  
  
(I thought that would make it worthwhile even if Reid did end up punishing me for talking back to him.)  
  
“I’m not saying you can’t look after yourself,” he began, looking uncomfortable as a nazi at an ABB meeting. I tried in vain to rein in the waves of scepticism I was sure I must have been radiating. Because it sure as shit **sounded** like he was saying exactly that. “But there are procedures we have to follow. The PRT is responsible for your welfare, and we take that responsibility seriously.” He smiled then, the expression sitting awkwardly on his face. “It won’t be that bad, I promise. It’s just going to be someone checking in with you from time to time, that’s all.”  
  
Checking in with me?  
  
Was that code for practically breathing down my neck?  
  
I didn’t **want** some stranger poking their nose into my business, keeping a beady eye on me. It was bad enough that there were cameras every-fucking-where in this place. Now I was supposed to actively help them to keep tabs on me?  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
“I can do it,” Ms Grant said abruptly, startling me.  
  
Reid also looked a little taken aback.  
  
“I don’t know…” he started to say, but she interrupted him.  
  
“It makes sense,” she said. She glanced over at me, and her lips twitched in a quick smile. “I’ll be checking up on Astrid anyway, so why bother having someone else do the same thing? It seems a little redundant, if you ask me.”  
  
Reid’s face creased in a frown, but the expression seemed thoughtful rather than pissed off.  
  
“What do you think, Astrid? Would that be okay with you?” he asked.  
  
I was honestly a little shocked he’d bothered to ask my opinion.  
  
I thought about it for a moment, and then nodded.  
  
“Yes, that would be fine,” I said.  
  
More than fine, honestly. At least I more or less knew where I stood with Ms Grant. And I kind of liked her, even though she could be infuriating at times.  
  
It was undoubtedly better than the alternative, even if it didn’t solve the longer term problem.  
  
Fuck.  
  
This was not what I’d expected when I ran away from home to join the Wards. On the other hand, given that I’d been half-expecting to be thrown an a cell and interrogated within an inch of my life, this was definitely… better.  
  
(I tried not to think about the fact that that cell might still be in my future if I fucked up badly enough, or if I let too many secrets slip.)  
  
And as Reid and Ms Grant settled the details between themselves — apparently my input wasn’t needed for that — I couldn’t help but reflect that, all in all, this meeting wasn’t going nearly as badly as I’d feared.  
  
I just hoped I hadn’t jinxed myself by thinking that.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I felt a little dazed as I made my way back to the Wards HQ. I’d been waiting and waiting for that other shoe to drop and it just… hadn’t.  
  
The meeting was over, and Reid hadn’t pulled any nasty surprises out of his nonexistent hat. Even more shocking, I’d apparently managed not to fuck things up too egregiously. Neither Reid nor Ms Grant had seemed angry with me at all, and I…  
  
I was still a Ward. I wasn’t being thrown out, and I wasn’t being dragged off to a cell.  
  
Maybe… Maybe this would be a good day.  
  
My phone buzzed and I absently pulled it out — still not used to having a smartphone — expecting to see a text from Dennis. What I saw instead, though, was…  
  
Oh.  
  
So that was where that other shoe had gotten to.  
  
It wasn’t a message, it was a calendar alert. Specifically, it was a meeting request.  
  
Aegis wanted to see me in his office at fourteen hundred hours.  
  
Fuck.  
  
I was ashamed to admit that I had a brief impulse to ignore the request, but I quashed that with barely a thought. Ignoring a communication from my team leader was simply not a valid option. Not even fucking close.  
  
After accepting the invitation, I mechanically put my phone away and continued on my way, moving largely on autopilot as my power whispered its way through the building.  
  
One thought kept running through my mind, over and over and over again.  
  
So much for today being a good day.


	34. Aphenphosmphobia 3.07

“So,” Aegis said, with what seemed like casual interest — or, at least, a reasonably good facsimile of it — as he fiddled with a pen, twiddling it idly between his fingers. (The movement tugged at my gaze, but I forced myself to keep my head up and my eyes on his. (I tried not to think about those fingers clenching into fists, those fists thumping into my all-too-frail flesh.) “Just out of curiosity, have you been scheduled for an appointment with a counsellor yet?”  
  
Caught off-guard by the question (what the fuck was he trying to say?), I took a moment to order my thoughts before answering. As I did so, he surreptitiously checked his watch. Again.  
  
What the fuck was going on here? This point of this meeting was allegedly so he could fill me in on what I’d missed at yesterday’s briefing. But he’d finished doing that a good five or ten minutes ago and he still hadn’t dismissed me. Instead, he seemed to be trying to… make conversation? Which might have been innocuous, if it wasn’t for the fact that he kept checking his goddamned watch. Or, occasionally, his phone.  
  
Was he stalling? But… why?  
  
What did he want from me?  
  
“Not yet, Sir,” I replied, trying to push away my unease. “They were hoping to have the initial assessment sometime this week, but I understand that none of the counsellors were available after all.” I frowned, remembering Ms Grant’s apparent displeasure when the subject had come up earlier. “I think Ms Grant was planning on chasing it up on my behalf.”  
  
I wasn’t sure why exactly the PRT saw the need for two separate psychological assessments, but far be it from me to question their intake protocols. Maybe they just wanted to make doubly sure their parahumans weren’t likely to freak the fuck out in the field. I supposed I could understand why they’d want to be cautious. I mean, I wasn’t exactly Triumvirate level, and the amount of damage I could cause if I cut loose with my powers was kind of… disturbing.  
  
(And honestly kind of awesome.)  
  
Despite my best efforts to keep the memories locked down, I remembered, again, how easy it had been to reduce a building to fine dust. How absolutely fucking amazing it had felt to rip those bonds apart; a rush more intense than anything I’d ever experienced before. I tried not to wonder if it would have felt even better to atomise it.  
  
Aegis winced.  
  
For one heart-stopping moment, I feared that I’d spoken some of my thoughts aloud, but his next words eased that worry.  
  
“Well, that certainly ought to get things moving,” he murmured. “Beth can be pretty… determined… when she sets her mind to something.”  
  
“That is definitely the impression I got, Sir,” I replied, cautiously.  
  
He gave me a speculative look, and then, in an almost conspiratorial tone, he asked: “So, have you had the pleasure of one of her lectures yet?” I grimaced before I could help myself, and he grinned suddenly, his eyes glinting with humour. “I take it that’s a yes,” he murmured dryly; not really a question.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said, with feeling.  
  
“Mind if I ask what it was about?”  
  
Yes, actually, but I supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to answer.  
  
“Ms Grant told me I was pushing myself too hard, not getting enough sleep and generally not looking after myself.”  
  
Which, okay, the lack of sleep I would concede, although that had hardly been my fault. But she was way off on the other parts. I only pushed myself as hard as I needed to, and I could look after myself just fine. But Aegis was looking at me like…  
  
“You do seem quite… driven,” he said, carefully.  
  
Was he saying he agreed with Ms Grant? Hellfire and damnation! What the fuck did I have to do to make these people realise I wasn’t fucking fragile?  
  
Resisting the urge to grit my teeth, I kept my expression neutral.  
  
“There’s a lot to do, Sir,” I said, trying not to twitch when I realised that there was still something of an edge to my voice. I made an effort to soften it as I continued. “There are the courses to complete, I’m trying to catch up with the schoolwork I’ve missed, and get a handle on my power. Plus, I can’t afford to fall behind with my physical training.” I couldn’t hold back a sigh as I felt the weight of it all, almost like a tangible pressure pushing down on me, making feel feel the full force of my exhaustion. “There’s so fucking much to do,” I muttered, and then froze, remembering who I was talking to. “Uh, sorry, Sir. I wasn’t complaining. And I intended no disrespect.”  
  
He stared at me for what felt like a lifetime. Once again, it felt like there wasn’t enough air in here, but I shoved the sensation away.  
  
“I didn’t think you were being disrespectful,” he said, haltingly, eventually. “Anyway, even if you were, that’s not exactly a crime.”  
  
Well… no, not a crime per se. Surely it was an actionable offence, though? Unless he, like Captain Cavendish, had a weirdly high tolerance for backtalk. But how the fuck was I supposed to know? Clearly, I was just going to have to figure it out. And, in the meantime, hope that I didn’t end up finding out the hard way where his lines were.  
  
“And you really don’t need to apologise,” he continued. He leaned slowly back in his chair, his gaze softening. “I remember what it was like back when I joined the Wards,” he said, his speech growing smoother as he continued to talk. “I know it can feel a little overwhelming. But no one expects you to master everything right away. That’s what the training period is for.” Chris had said something similar. But it seemed pretty fucking strange to hear the team leader actively encouraging… slothfulness. One side of his mouth lifted in a small, wry smile. “Not that I really have any grounds to talk. I was also pretty driven back then.” His smile widened a touch, his tone rueful as he continued. “And Beth probably gave me enough ‘you’re overdoing it’ speeches that I can recite them off by heart.” He shook his head. “Apparently, even I don’t adapt to withering sarcasm.”  
  
The sound of my own laughter startled me. I turned it into a cough, resisting the stupid urge to clap my hand over my mouth.  
  
(In the back of my mind, I was making a note of what he’d said. Adaptation? Was that how his power worked? I wondered what its limits were.)  
  
Fuck. I hoped he wasn’t annoyed at me. But he’d been trying to be funny, hadn’t he? Unless it was a trap.  
  
 (Unless he was just looking for an excuse to discipline me. To put me in my place. To show me just how fucking helpless I really was against him.)  
  
I resisted the urge to swallow against the lump in my throat (the feeling like a hand around my neck) and got my expression under control.  
  
“Ms Grant can be very sarcastic when she wants to be, Sir,” I said.  
  
But… she also wasn’t the only one who’d told me I pushed myself too hard. Yasmeena’d had a go at me for damaging myself during the power evaluation — even though she’d blown the whole thing way out of proportion — and Nick had told me off about maintaining my training schedule while injured. Remembering what he’d said made me feel… weird. I needed to think about it. But… not now. Not when I was talking to my team leader.  
  
Not when I was trying to figure out what the fuck he wanted from me.  
  
“You certainly don’t need to tell me that,” he replied. Fiddling with the pen again, he gave me a long, thoughtful look. “Look, Astrid,” he said. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but maybe Beth has a point. You’ve really… been through a lot. And you do work very hard. No one’s going to fault you for taking a break once in a while.”  
  
I stared at him.  
  
“I’ve never had a problem with hard work, Sir,” I said, stiffly. “And I wouldn’t want to fall behind.”  
  
Even the possibility of that made me want to flinch, anxiety making my heart pound like a drum. I ruthlessly squashed that feeling — that weakness — back down where it belonged, striving to keep my expression impassive. From the sharp look Aegis gave me, I wasn’t sure I succeeded. Or maybe he was just angry at my tone.  
  
Why the fuck was I even still here? Why hadn’t he dismissed me already? What the hell was he waiting for?  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but then abruptly closed it again, digging his phone out of his pocket to check the display. For a brief moment, something that almost looked like relief showed on his face. I tried to keep my apprehension from showing on mine.  
  
“Okay,” he said, shoving the pen he’d been fiddling with back into the pot. “Well, I think we’ve covered everything that we needed to for this meeting, so I should probably let you go and catch up with the others in the Hub.”  
  
I blinked, surprise rapidly giving way to suspicion. **Now** he was dismissing me? After dragging this meeting out for some fucking ineffable reason, he just happened to decide it had run its course after receiving a message? Had he been waiting for a signal?  
  
“The meeting’s over, Sir?” I asked cautiously, wanting confirmation.  
  
“That’s right,” he said, nodding enthusiastically, if somewhat redundantly.  
  
He was letting me go? Just like that?  
  
I didn’t trust this. It smelled like a trap.  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, hoping my suspicion wasn’t too obvious. I got to my feet, surreptitiously keeping an eye on him.  
  
When he also stood, my heart suddenly jackhammered in my chest, adrenaline kicking every system into high alert, snapping me squarely into fight or flight mode. I had to exert all of my willpower to stop myself scrambling backwards, away from him, like a coward. I had to actively stop my metal unfurling into wires so I could lash out with it. Caught between warring impulses, all I could do was freeze, paralysed, not daring to let myself give in to any of my instincts; held in place by the certain knowledge that any course of action I could take was bound to be the wrong one.  
  
I tried not to flinch (tried not to imagine the impact of fists on flesh) as I looked up at him, realising again just how tall he was; how broadly built. Even without powers, he was bigger than me; stronger than me. With powers…  
  
(I tried to remind myself that we were on the same side. That he probably wouldn’t damage me too badly. That the Wards needed me to be functional.)  
  
(It didn’t really help.)  
  
The only saving grace in all of this was that he was looking down while I had my stupid little wibble fit, his attention on his phone as he tapped out a quick message and returned it to his pocket. By the time he looked up again, I had myself firmly under control. It took me a moment to realise that the expression on his face wasn’t actually an angry snarl. Instead, it was… He was smiling?  
  
That didn’t help my anxiety one jot.  
  
“I’ll come with you,” he said, his tone unexpectedly cheerful. “I’m heading to the Hub anyway.”  
  
He moved around the desk, and the office suddenly seemed too small to hold the pair of us. It was confining; claustrophobic. My skin felt hot and tight, like it might burst with the effort of keeping all my anxiety on the inside. It felt like iron bands were clamping around my chest, around my head, my pulse thudding so loudly I was almost surprised that Aegis didn’t comment on it. I was at the door almost before I’d decided on a course of action, and it took more effort than it should have done to hold the door open for Aegis to step through, rather than simply darting through it myself.  
  
“Thank you,” he murmured, and I wasn’t sure if the stiffness of his tone came from anger, or from the fact that this felt awkward as fuck.  
  
“You’re welcome, Sir.” I said as I closed the door behind us. I looked at him, cursing the fact that I couldn’t seem to even muster up any fake confidence right now, let alone the real thing. Christ, I was pathetic. “I, uh, wasn’t planning on going to the Hub just yet, though. I was going to swing by my room first.”  
  
I just… It was probably weak of me, but I just needed a fucking moment alone before I could cope with company right now. I was feeling pretty damn frazzled. And it was a test, of sorts, to see if he really was done with me. To see if he actually would let me go.  
  
I had so little faith in that outcome that Aegis’ dismayed reaction made me feel nothing more than weary resignation. Maybe even a measure of relief at being vindicated.  
  
Shifting a little awkwardly in place, he ran a hand through his hair, seeming uncomfortable. I couldn’t help disapproving of the fact that he actually showed that. A leader was supposed to appear authoritative and in control at all times, weren’t they? They were supposed to seem infallible.  
  
“Oh. Well, uh, would you mind doing it the other way around?” he asked. “There’s… some stuff I’d like to quickly get out of the way while everyone’s together.”  
  
He motioned vaguely with one hand, and I flinched before I could stop myself.  
  
This was absolutely goddamn ridiculous. If he wanted me to go to the Hub, why didn’t he just fucking tell me to do it? Why bother giving me the illusion of choice? Say what you would about my father — and I had said, or at least thought, plenty over the years, and especially the past few days — at least he knew how to give a fucking order.  
  
I studied Aegis warily. I felt jittery with adrenaline; restless with the need to move, to act, to do **something** other than behave like a complete fucking drip. At the same time, I was just tired; so exhausted in body and mind that it felt like a weight pressing me down into the floor. I just… Whatever he had in mind, I wished he’d just get on with it.  
  
“Of course, Sir,” I said, hopelessly; helplessly. What the fuck else could I say?  
  
He smiled at me with something like relief in his eyes.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, and started walking down the corridor. I fell in beside him, trying not to feel like the walls were closing in.  
  
What was this about? I didn’t believe it was something so simple as another team briefing. I couldn’t believe it. If that was really the case, he would’ve just said so. Wouldn’t he? So maybe it was something else; something he didn’t want to warn me about ahead of time.  
  
Maybe he was taking me to the basement right now.  
  
Or maybe I was just being paranoid; reading too much into things, jumping at shadows. Maybe it really was something innocuous. But I wasn’t wrong about him dragging the meeting out. Nor about him repeatedly checking his watch and his phone. At least, I didn’t think I was. And, like Dad was fond of saying: it isn’t paranoia if they really are out to get you.  
  
Not that I really thought Aegis was out to get me, but it sure as shit seemed like he was up to something, and I just couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was had something to do with me.  
  
Maybe… Maybe he was supposed to discipline me for fucking up during my evaluation. He was the team leader, after all. That meant he was the one responsible for maintaining order in the ranks. So maybe he’d been ordered to punish me. And maybe, for some reason, he was reluctant to do it? Probably because he thought I was too fucking pathetic to handle it. So, maybe he’d been trying to put it off?  
  
Maybe he even thought he was doing me a favour, not telling me anything about it ahead of time.  
  
Maybe… Maybe… Too many fucking maybes; the possibilities churning around and around inside me until it made me feel dizzy.  
  
(My lungs kept trying to tell me that there wasn’t enough air in here. I ignored them. It was fine. I was fine. I would be fine. Anyway, that was Dad’s thing. Aegis probably wouldn’t… wouldn’t… He’d probably just hit me. That probably wouldn’t be too bad, even if he was a fucking brute. Chris had said he was good at dialling back his strength when they sparred. So I… I didn’t think he’d actually break anything.)  
  
(Not unless breaking me was the point.)  
  
(Because wasn’t that how you made a good subordinate? A good soldier?)  
  
I felt sick to my stomach.  
  
I couldn’t keep this in anymore. I had to ask; I had to **know**. So I paused before the door that led to the Hub, drew on my all-too-meagre stores of courage and looked him straight in the eyes.  
  
“Am I in trouble, Sir?” I asked bluntly.  
  
Aegis came to a dead stop, his eyes going so wide, I almost feared for the safety of his eyeballs. He stared at me like I’d started speaking in tongues. I returned his gaze steadily, fighting to keep my expression impassive.  
  
“What?” he asked faintly.  
  
“Am I in trouble, Sir?” I repeated, making a particular effort to enunciate the words clearly. I didn’t think I’d stuttered or mumbled the first time, but it couldn’t hurt.  
  
“No,” he said, shaking his head rapidly. “No, of course you’re not in trouble. I don’t know why you’d even ask that, but you’re not. Not in the slightest.” He looked around, almost like he was searching for something, but I wasn’t sure what. Maybe he was just having trouble looking me in the eyes as he lied to my face. But then his gaze latched onto the door of the hub like a remora onto a shark, and he reached for the handle. “Anyway, here we are,” he said unnecessarily, his voice just a little too loud. Before I could say or do anything, he flung open the door. “After you,” he said, gesturing to the open doorway.  
  
Okay, I guessed this was it. One way or another, I’d find out what was going on as soon as I stepped through that door.  
  
So I nodded, tried vainly to tell myself that it would be okay (that, no matter what was waiting for me in there, I could and would endure it), and did just that.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Surprise!”  
  
The sudden chorus of voices stopped me in my tracks, and I stared at the scene in front of me, completely and utterly unable to process what I was seeing. It was like looking at a jigsaw puzzle and only being able to focus on the pieces, not the image as a whole.  
  
My team mates. Well, most of them; Sophia being noticeable by her absence. Civilian clothes. A table loaded with food and drink. A truly massive cake. Banners and streamers and bunting, oh my. An actual, honest to God, disco ball.  
  
A… party?  
  
**That** was the big mystery?  
  
“Oh, that one’s definitely a keeper,” Dennis said, smirking, and I belatedly realised that he’d been holding up his phone.  
  
“Dennis,” Dean said, shaking his head with what looked like disappointment. “You couldn’t even make it a full minute before going back to your usual misbehaviour?”  
  
I glanced at him and he smiled at me. I probably should have smiled back at him, but I was a little too rattled to manage it right now. I focused on the one thing I actually could deal with: Dennis being an asshole.  
  
“Did you just take my fucking picture?” I demanded, or tried to, the words emerging much more hesitant and uncertain than I’d intended. I sounded like I was in shock.  
  
“Damn right I did,” he drawled, still smirking obnoxiously. “You should have seen your face! Two words: hilariously discombobulated. I guess our glorious leader really did manage not to give the game away.”  
  
Under other circumstances, I would have protested; would have insisted he delete the photo. (Being photographed were something to be avoided if at all possible. You never knew who might end up seeing a photograph; who might end up putting two and two together and come up with something in the vicinity of four.) For the moment, though, I was reeling too much to muster up much more than a mild irritation, and even that felt distant and unconnected, like it belonged to someone else.  
  
But then, I was so distracted that even the blatant disrespect of a superior — when said superior was within earshot, no less — barely even registered.  
  
In an attempt to cover my confusion, I looked at the largest of the banners strung across the room, my eyebrows raising of their own accord as I saw what was written there.  
  
“Congratulations on surviving your assessment,” I read aloud. I looked at the gathered Wards, perplexed. “Was there a risk I wouldn’t?”  
  
“Well, if you believe the rumours,” Dennis said slyly, only to yelp when Chris elbowed him in the side.  
  
“Ignore him,” Chris told me, grinning. “It’s just a joke.”  
  
“Of course, ignoring Dennis is good advice in general,” Missy said, smiling sweetly at the asshole in question when he redirected his offended look from Chris to her.  
  
“So,” I began, making an effort to recover my composure. “A… surprise party? For me?”  
  
“No, it’s for the invisible person standing beside you,” Dennis said, rolling his eyes. “Of course it’s for you.”  
  
I flushed and glowered at him.  
  
“It’s a Wards tradition,” Aegis said before I could muster up a suitable retort. “The post-evaluation surprise party.” He moved to stand next to me. (It was sad just how fucking proud of myself I was for not twitching at his approach.)  
  
I looked at him, not entirely sure what to say. Fortunately, I was saved from my awkwardness when Chris piped up:  
  
“This is also a belated birthday party.”  
  
He gestured at the other banner; the one I hadn’t really gotten around to reading yet. Sure enough, it said ‘Happy Birthday Astrid’ in big, bright letters. The ‘Happy Birthday’ part was printed, clearly bought from a shop. It looked new, in fact; certainly much newer and more pristine than the banner congratulating me on surviving my evaluation. That one was also printed, but the ink had faded slightly, and it had creases in it, as if it had been repeatedly folded for storage. My name, however, was hand-lettered in various different colours. Not just scrawled, either. It looked like someone had put some real effort into it. I wondered which of them had done it.  
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly, surprised by the lump in my throat and the pressure on my chest. It wasn’t unpleasant, not at all, just kind of… intense. Belatedly realising that I sounded ungrateful, I hurriedly added: “But… thanks.”  
  
This was… I wasn’t sure why it was affecting me more than the whole ‘surviving Northeast’ thing. Maybe because… I didn’t know, but maybe… A post-evaluation Wards tradition was one thing, and it was something that made sense from a team bonding perspective. Traditions like that helped to integrate new members, especially when there was high turnover. But the birthday part of it? That was… It was just for me. And it felt… good, I guessed, but also weird, and overwhelming, and… and I didn’t know what the fuck to do or say. I was seriously worried I wasn’t going to be able to maintain my composure, and I absolutely couldn’t afford to let my control slip — not in front of my team, but most definitely not in front of Aegis — but nor could I excuse myself, and I… I…  
  
“Speech!” Dean, of all people, suddenly called out. Yanked out of my spiralling thoughts by the sheer unexpectedness of it, I stared at him as the others took up the cry. And then indignation hit me like a spray of cold water, anchoring me enough so I could draw myself up and glower at him.  
  
“What the fuck did I ever do to you?” I asked him, somewhat aggrievedly.  
  
He gave me a lopsided grin, apparently completely unfazed by my displeasure. “You are the guest of honour,” he pointed out. “I believe it’s somewhat traditional to say a few words.”  
  
Somehow, I didn’t think I’d be getting out of this one. But, surprisingly, once the initial shock faded, I found I didn’t actually mind as much as I would’ve expected.  
  
“Fine,” I said, with what I thought was reasonably good grace. I cleared my throat, making sure my shoulders were back and my chin was up. “Thank you; all of you,” I said. I thought about leaving it there — after all, the sooner I finished, the sooner I could check out the food — but apparently I had a little more to say. “Yesterday was a fucking long day, and today’s been kind of a slog, but this makes it… better.” My face was burning but, unusually, I didn’t think I actually felt embarrassed. I didn’t even feel awkward, really, although I probably should’ve done. I hated being the centre of attention, and I sucked at public speaking — or speaking at all — but I found myself smiling. “No one’s ever thrown me a surprise party before. So… thanks. I appreciate it.”  
  
There was applause, and even, to my surprise, cheering, but I suspected that was for the end of what I would charitably call my speech, rather than for the words themselves.  
  
(I found myself thinking about the girls on my soccer team; about how they cheered and celebrated after a victory. About how, in those moments, I could almost forget that taking part in school sports was just about maintaining a cover. About how I could forget that none of them were really my friends. About how it actually felt like I belonged there; like I was part of something.)  
  
So… what now? Could I just make a beeline for the food table? Or should I wait for Aegis to open the festivities? I wasn’t entirely sure what the protocol was for socialising with a team leader. As I hesitated, though, the others answered my question by diving in.  
  
Shit! They’d better not eat all of the mini-quiches before I got there. I fucking loved those things, even if I could barely remember the last time I’d actually had one.  
  
But, even with that panic to drive me — the horror that all those tasty-looking morsels would disappear before I even got close; a scenario not unlike certain nightmares I’d had in the past — I suddenly found myself rooted to the spot, unable to bring myself to move. My chest was tight and it felt like there was a pressure behind my eyes. What the fuck was wrong with me?  
  
“Is something wrong?” I started a little as Aegis’ voice echoed my own thoughts, hoping futilely that he hadn’t noticed me twitch as I looked up at him.  
  
“No, Sir,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I guess I’m just not…” I trailed off, not sure what kind of answer would be acceptable. “This is a little outside my experience,” I tried cautiously. I must have been more rattled than I’d thought, though, because, without really meaning to, I found myself blurting out: “I don’t really go to parties, and no one’s ever thrown me one of my own. It just… This feels…” Overwhelming. Like I was bound to fuck up somehow; to say or do the wrong thing and make a complete fool of myself. (Like the moment I dared to relax and take this at face value, someone was going to take it all away again.) “Kind of weird,” I concluded awkwardly, and then froze as I remembered who I was talking to. “Sorry, Sir. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”  
  
“You didn’t sound ungrateful, don’t worry,” Aegis assured me. “And you don’t need to apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong.”  
  
I stared at him. Since when was being completely and utterly pathetic not doing something wrong?  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, after what was probably far too long a pause as I scrambled uselessly for words.  
  
Aegis looked at me for a breath or two — not long in the grand scheme of things, but plenty long enough for my pulse to start thudding dully in my ears — and then smiled. It looked like it took an effort.  
  
“This is your party, Astrid,” he murmured. “Just… try to relax and have fun, okay? You deserve it.”  
  
“Is that an order, Sir?” I replied, before I could think better of it.  
  
He stared at me like he didn’t have the first clue whether or not I was being serious.  
  
Honestly, I wasn’t even sure myself.  
  
Trepidation fluttered inside me as Aegis drew breath to speak.  
  
“Look,” he began in a cautious tone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “You know, we’re not exactly on duty at the moment.” He smiled. “So, why don’t you try calling me Carlos? At least for the duration of the party.”  
  
Of all the things I might have expected him to say, that… really wasn’t it.  
  
I blinked stupidly for a moment, and then kicked my brain into gear.  
  
“Okay,” I said quietly. I took a breath and scrounged up a smile of my own. “Carlos.”  
  
God, that felt weird. But… he had told me to. And I guessed attending a party did count as being at ease, even though I hadn’t wanted to presume. Plus, I had sort of been slowly getting used to calling people in authority by their names. Even though, unlike those people, Carlos was my direct superior. I knew none of the others called him Sir, so he obviously didn’t mind the informality, at least from people who’d been on the team a while. But it just felt wrong to do so myself. Maybe it would get easier in time. Right now, though, using the proper form of address felt more… comfortable. Not that interacting with Aegis… Carlos… could in any way be considered comfortable, but formality was familiar, at least.  
  
Right now, with all the upheaval I’d undergone, with all the strangeness and eccentricity I was having to adjust to, I felt like I could do with a little familiarity.  
  
(Apropos of nothing, I wondered where Sophia was; why she wasn’t here to take part in this Wards tradition.)  
  
Still, this was just for the party, though, right? I could manage that much. I could.  
  
It still felt weird.  
  
“Good,” Carlos said softly, his smile broadening and seeming more natural. I found myself relaxing a little, a tension I hadn’t even really noticed easing a touch as I noted that he seemed pleased. He nodded. “Alright, then,” he continued, briskly. “Let’s go and get some food.”  
  
Now, **that** was a fucking marvellous idea.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Wards of Brockton Bay!” Carlos’ voice rang out unexpectedly, making me start a little before my mind registered the cheerful note to his voice. “The time of the ritual is upon us.” In a more normal voice, he added: “By which I mean, it looks like everyone’s had something to eat by now, so we might as well get on with this.”  
  
“Way to kill the mood, man,” Dennis sighed, rolling his eyes.  
  
As Carlos said something sarcastic in response, I took advantage of the opportunity to lean towards Dean and ask, sotto voce: “Get on with what? What’s happening now? Should I be worried?”  
  
(I tried not to disapprove of Carlos indulging in something as undignified as bickering with a subordinate. Even while at ease, surely there were standards to maintain? But… it wasn’t my place to question his style of command, so I would be keeping those thoughts to myself.)  
  
“It’s nothing bad, I promise,” Dean replied, also keeping his voice low. “I mean, I know you’re going to worry anyway, but you really don’t have to.” Ignoring the sour look I shot his way, he added: “And far be it from me to spoil the surprise.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, flatly.  
  
“I live to serve,” he murmured, his mouth twitching upwards ever so slightly.  
  
Before I could deliver a fitting response to that — likely something involving a fucktonne of profanity — Carlos started issuing orders. In a bewilderingly short amount of time, I had been bundled into a mask and cape produced from God knew where and herded into the centre of the room. Now I stood facing Carlos, who was holding a large book; something like a high school yearbook or photo album. The other Wards were arrayed in a rough circle around us.  
  
What the flying fuck was going on?  
  
Carlos smiled at me — I thought it was supposed to be reassuring — and then his expression became serious again.  
  
“You have been tested,” he pronounced. “Just as we have all been tested. You have suffered, and perhaps at times you have despaired, but you are not alone.” Was he still talking about the evaluation? I honestly wasn’t sure. “You’re one of us now, a Ward of Brockton Bay. And so we gather here, not just in celebration, but also in commiseration.” He paused there, but it felt deliberate, for emphasis, rather than merely being a hesitation. When he continued, his voice was quieter, and had a normal speaking cadence, rather than the portentous tones he’d been using. It was no less intense for that, though. “As I’m sure you figured out, evaluations are about much more than just seeing what you can do with your powers. They’re also about finding out how you — how we — react under pressure.” He smiled, then, but there seemed little real humour in it, and his next words were edged with bitterness. “And Psych really do like piling on the pressure.”  
  
“Hear, hear,” Dean said quietly. Startled, I glanced his way to see his lips pressed together in a tight line, tension in the set of his shoulders. He seemed almost… angry? What had happened during his evaluation to get that kind of reaction?  
  
“I’m sorry we couldn’t warn you ahead of time,” Carlos said, drawing my attention back to him. He actually sounded like he meant that. “Unfortunately, as unpleasant as the stress-testing can be, it’s a necessary part of the process.”  
  
“Or so they tell us,” Dennis muttered.  
  
Carlos gave him a sharp look, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge the interruption.  
  
“But if we can’t give the new recruit a heads up, the very least we can do is commiserate with them afterwards, and share our own war stories.” He smiled again, somewhat more genuinely this time. “Somewhere along the way that turned into this.”  
  
He looked at me expectantly, and I racked my brains for something intelligent to say.  
  
“I see, S-” I bit off the word before it could fully escape hoping that no one noticed. Or, at least, if they did notice, that they wouldn’t comment. I was actually grateful to be wearing the mask — at least it hid the inevitable blush.  
  
“Right,” he said, after a moment. (Was he disappointed? Should I have said something else?) He straightened, and held up the book so I could get a good look at it. Where the mask and cape were all riotous colour and mismatched materials, the book was bound in plain black leather, or at least a good imitation of it; heavy and expensive-looking. A single word graced the cover, neatly and discreetly embossed in a dull metallic grey colour. It simply said: ’Thoughts.’ Drawing in a deep breath, Carlos once again used his ‘speech’ voice. “This tome contains the collected wisdom of generations of Wards.”  
  
Behind me, I heard Chris murmur quietly: “Well, not exactly generations.”  
  
“Not exactly wisdom either,” Missy murmured back. “But let’s just call it artistic license.”  
  
Carlos rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything to two of them, merely waiting until they’d finished before continuing.  
  
“Likewise, the vestments you wear are a collective creation, changing over the years just as we change. We invite you to read the tome at your leisure, to study the vestments. And, if the mood strikes you, perhaps to contribute your own words of wisdom to the tome, and your own unique touches to the vestments.” Sounding suddenly unsure of himself, he added. “Only if you want to, of course. It’s not compulsory or anything. And you don’t have to decide right now. So, um, no pressure.” He coughed. “Ah, here.” He held the book out, and I accepted it automatically, unable to help myself running my fingers — and my power — over it.  
  
It was definitely leather-bound.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, trying not to show how overwhelmed I was feeling right now. At least the mask would help with that, I supposed.  
  
“Right,” Carlos said briskly. “Now that’s over with…”  
  
“Let the interrogation commence,” Dennis interrupted, grinning.  
  
I tensed, wondering uneasily what the fuck that meant.  
  
“It’s not an interrogation,” Carlos said, shooting Dennis an annoyed glance. Dennis, unsurprisingly, remained unrepentant. Carlos turned back to me, his tone reassuring as he continued. “It’s just that, like I said, part of the point of this is to compare notes about our evaluations. If you want to, of course. You don’t have to talk about it if you’d rather not.”  
  
“Although I, for one, really hope you will,” Chris chimed in. “I’m kind of intrigued about the whole ‘blowing yourself up’ thing.”  
  
I’d mentioned it in response to a text of his asking how things were going, but hadn’t provided any details other than to tell him I was fine. I was actually quite impressed he’d managed to contain his curiosity this far.  
  
“What?” Dean asked, looking startled. “I must have missed that one. Are you alright?”  
  
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I assured him. “I just-“  
  
“Hold that thought,” Dennis said. “I, for one, am going to need some popcorn for this. And if the ritual shenanigans are over, I vote we actually sit our asses down. Unlike GI Jane here, I am not prepared to stand to attention for hours on end.”  
  
Of course, the down side of the mask was that it hid the no doubt truly fearsome glare I levelled at Dennis. Then again, knowing him, he’d probably just call it fucking adorable.  
  
Asshole.  
  
“Fine,” Carlos said, to my surprise. “I suppose we might as well make ourselves comfortable.”  
  
That seemed to be the cue for Dennis, Chris and Missy to head for the sofa and chairs by way of the food table. Dean and Carlos, however, stayed where they were.  
  
If I’d been in Carlos’ position, I would’ve been strongly tempted to actually make Dennis stand to attention for hours, just to teach him not to be so fucking disrespectful to the team leader. But maybe Carlos didn’t want to spoil what was supposed to be a celebration with the unpleasantness of disciplining a subordinate. Maybe he would have a private chat with Dennis later.  
  
(And I absolutely refused to feel trepidation about that on Dennis’ behalf. He almost certainly deserved whatever punishment Carlos deemed necessary.)  
  
(I ignored the fact that I felt kind of bad for him anyway.)  
  
“So, should I take off the, uh ‘ritual vestments’ now?” I asked. Carlos hadn’t specifically told me to stand down, but ‘making ourselves comfortable’ seemed like pretty much the same thing.  
  
“Actually,” he said. “If you could hang on just a few more moments, there’s one more thing we need to do first. Dean, would you do the honours?”  
  
“Of course,” Dean said cheerfully. I eyed him suspiciously, but he was giving nothing away but a mild amusement that could have meant anything. I waited where I was as he retrieved a smallish, sturdy-looking case from beneath the table. Setting it down, he unzipped it to reveal a very fancy-looking camera, which he set about assembling with deft, practiced motions.  
  
It looked like I was getting my photograph taken again. On the plus side, I got to wear a mask for this one.  
  
As I watched Dean fiddle with his camera, I made a mental note to corner Dennis at some point and force him — um, that was to say, use my words to ask him — to delete the one he took of me earlier.  
  
“That’s a serious looking camera,” I observed, watching Dean work. Not that I knew anything about photography, but this one certainly seemed to have a lot of controls and attachments and accessories.  
  
“Photography is my hobby,” Dean said. He glanced up at Carlos, grinning. “Although it also seems to have become something of a job these days.”  
  
“Dean’s the team’s unofficial-official photographer,” Carlos told me, flashing a smile Dean’s way.  
  
I raised my eyebrows behind the mask.  
  
“Unofficial-official photographer?” I repeated cautiously.  
  
“Sometimes you want decent photos in costume, but you don’t want to go through the rigamarole of dealing with PR,” he explained. “And Dean kindly volunteered his services.”  
  
“My services were volunteered, you mean,” Dean retorted, but there didn’t seem to be any real irritation in his voice, only amusement. He turned to me. “I made the mistake of telling Dennis about my hobby, and the next thing I knew, I’d been talked into taking pictures of some of his stupid pranks.” He shrugged. “It went on from there.”  
  
“What kinds of things do people want you to photograph?” I asked, curious.  
  
“It varies,” he said. “Someone doing something cool with their powers is the usual one. Especially if it’s something that PR wouldn’t approve of.”  
  
“Like Chris’… what did he call them? His Glowsticks of Doom,” Carlos said. “And the time Missy tried to recreate an Escher painting in real life.”  
  
“That was a challenge and a half,” Dean murmured thoughtfully. “The lighting was so weird, and it was tricky trying to get everything in focus. Fun, though.”  
  
“Trust me, you’re in good hands,” Carlos assured me. “Dean’s really good at this.”  
  
“You flatter me,” Dean demurred, although he seemed pleased by the praise. “But I’m just a hobbyist. Anyway, the camera does all the work.”  
  
“No flattery, just the truth,” Carlos said. “I bet you could do it professionally if you wanted.”  
  
“Alas, my parents have other plans for me,” Dean replied. His tone was light, but there was something of an edge to it, and he’d tensed a little at Carlos’ words. Carlos frowned a little, so maybe he noticed too. Before he could say anything, though, Dean spoke again. “Alright,” he said briskly, turning to me. “Would you mind moving over there? The light’s better.”  
  
He pointed to a spot that, honestly, didn’t seem any different to any other place to me as far as the light went. But he was the expert, so I went where he asked. I was expecting this to be one quick snap and done, but instead he took a number of photos as he directed me to pose a certain way or to stand just so. He even had me play around with my metal, although that was hardly a chore.  
  
“You’re kind of a perfectionist, huh?” I murmured, amused at seeing this side of him.  
  
“Guilty as charged,” he replied, smiling a little ruefully. “I can get a little obsessed with getting the just the right shot. I hope I wasn’t being too bossy.”  
  
“You weren’t, don’t worry,” I assured him, grinning. “Anyway, I know how to follow orders.”  
  
He tensed, giving me a sharp look. Did he think I was offended? I guessed the mask did hide my grin. I tried to come up with something I could say that would reassure him, but he relaxed a moment later.  
  
“You’re certainly easier to work with than some of my models, that’s for sure,” he said easily. “Anyway, I think I’m done now.”  
  
As Dean set about carefully disassembling his camera and putting it away, I couldn’t help wondering if Victoria ever modelled for him. And then I started to wonder what kind of photos she might model for, and then my face was made of fire.  
  
Goddamned auras! And goddamned public displays of affection that sent my thoughts meandering in directions I really, really didn’t want them to go.  
  
Okay, breathe. Breathe, and try to think about something else. Like… food. Yes, that was safe. Or, it would have been, except now I was remembering Dennis’ little performance when he was trying to tempt me with a mini-quiche and, improbable though it seemed, I blushed even harder.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
To cover my confusion, I looked around for somewhere to set the ‘tome’ down.  
  
“Here, let me take that,” Carlos said, stepping forward and holding out his hands.  
  
I relinquished the book with a reluctance that surprised me.  
  
“Thank you,” I said.  
  
He smiled at me. “I’ll put it down over here for now,” he said, setting it down carefully on a table. “You can read through it at your leisure. Just give it back to me when you’re done. Or, if I’m not around, just leave it in the pigeonhole outside my office.  
  
“I’ll do that, thanks.” I was was kind of curious to see what kind of ‘wisdom’ that ‘generations’ of Wards had come up with, but I supposed it could wait until the party was over. Huddling in a corner with the book right now would probably be considered just a tad antisocial. And, considering they’d thrown this shindig in my honour, more than a little rude. I carefully took off the cape, taking my time with it to give the flush in my cheeks the chance to fade a little. I shook it out and looked at it for a moment before folding it carefully. “Does every new Ward add a piece to the cape and mask?” I asked.  
  
“Not every single one,” Carlos replied. “But most do, sure.” That certainly explained their patchwork appearance. He pointed to one of the patches, a piece of black cloth with a slightly lopsided circle sewn onto it in grey thread. It could have been a zero, or maybe an ‘O.’ “That one’s mine.” There was an odd note in his voice, something sad, maybe. I studied the patch, wondering what it meant to him. “But, like I said,” he continued, in a brighter tone — forced brightness, I was reasonably sure. “No pressure.”  
  
“I think I would like to add something,” I said, surprising myself a little. I even knew what.  
  
“What, right now?”  
  
Carlos sounded surprised. I nodded wordlessly, focusing my attention on the cape. And on my metal. This… It hurt a little to even think about giving up some of my metal, but that was why I wanted to do it. (That was why I had to do it.) It was just… stuff. It didn’t mean anything, in the grand scheme of things, no matter how my power or pointless sentiment tried to sway me. But I pushed the thoughts away and concentrated on what I was making: a simple clasp with a celtic knot design. Purely decorative. And didn’t that feel weird: making something pretty but useless? But… it was a Wards tradition. It would help me bond with my new team mates. That was useful, wasn’t it? And making it was helping me practice my fine control. So, maybe it wasn’t entirely useless.  
  
The mask was next. I didn’t technically need to see it to make my adjustments, but I took it off anyway, watching as thin strands of metal flowed over its surface at my command. The strands became spiderweb design similar to the one I’d made on my door, if a little simpler. With barely a thought, the metal was solid again, the design securely bonded in place. I turned it this way and that, admiring the way the delicate filaments caught the light.  
  
“There,” I said softly, once it was done. Feeling weirdly self-conscious, I held up the cape and mask, showing Carlos what I’d made.  
  
“That’s great,” he said, leaning in to take a closer look at it. (I managed not to pull away.) “I guess making things is pretty easy for you now, huh?”  
  
Not half as easy as breaking things, I thought but didn’t say.  
  
“Yes,” was what I said aloud. “As long as the material is sufficiently malleable, anyway. And metal’s pretty malleable.”  
  
Stupid though it was, I found myself mourning the metal I’d given up. It wasn’t even that much, really — I was still carrying more than enough to consider myself satisfactorily armed — but I still felt its loss.  
  
This was fucking ridiculous.  
  
“That reminds me, actually,” Carlos said. “I’ve been meaning to ask…” Looking a little uncomfortable, he shifted in place and ran one hand through his hair. (I tried to suppress the flare of disapproval at the length of it. Even though it looked like he’d had it cut since the last time I’d seen him, it was still decidedly non-regulation. Dad might have refused to let me get my own hair cut short, but he took the opposite view about what was appropriate for a guy. I dreaded to think what he would say about the length of Carlos’ hair.) “Do you always wear those metal… bracelet… things?”  
  
I froze, wondering if I was in trouble. (Panicking that he was going to take my metal away; wondering if he was going to punish me for having it in the first place.)  
  
“Would that be a problem?” I asked cautiously.  
  
He seemed to hesitate before answering, which helped my stupid nerves not one jot.  
  
“No,” he said slowly, only to subsequently amend that to: “Probably not. As long as you’re careful not to use your power on it in front of civilians.” Shit. I was in trouble. He’d personally witnessed at least one of my lapses in control, and maybe he’d heard about others. He was probably going to have words with me about it. Maybe not right here and now, but likely sometime soon. Fuck. (I really hoped he was as good at controlling his strength as Chris had suggested.) But there was no sense in worrying. It wasn’t like I could do anything about it, after all. He smiled, but the expression looked a little troubled. “I guess it’s a good job that Arcadia isn’t one of those schools that has metal detectors.”  
  
I didn’t know what to say to that.  
  
“Want me to take those?” Dean broke in, gesturing to the mask and cape. I guessed he must have finished stowing his camera while I’d been distracted.  
  
“Sure. Thanks,” I said, somehow unsurprised at the pang I felt when I relinquished them. I wondered if this ridiculous possessiveness of the things I used my power on would ever fade.  
  
“I think I’m going to grab some more food,” Carlos said, suiting the action to the words. I found myself breathing a little easier once he was no longer standing right there next to me.  
  
This was stupid. I was being stupid. I needed to calm the fuck down and stop acting like some fucking pathetic child. (Maybe it would be easier when I knew how bad it could get; when I didn’t have to imagine it. When I could be certain it wouldn’t be more than I could endure.)  
  
“Are you okay?” Dean asked quietly, looking at me with concern.  
  
“Fine,” I said shortly, cursing myself for letting my unease show. I really fucking hoped Carlos hadn’t noticed. That was the last goddamn thing I needed right now.  
  
“Relax, Astrid,” Dean said quietly. “This is a party. You’re supposed to be having fun.”  
  
“This isn’t something I’m really used to,” I replied, just as quietly, not sure what else I could say.  
  
“Parties, or fun?” he asked, giving me a wry smile.  
  
“Yes,” I said. I was aiming for a light tone, if a touch dry, but the words emerged somewhat flatter than I’d intended; somewhat more sincere. Dean’s smile faded a little.  
  
“Hey, are you done over there yet?” Dennis called out. “We’ve been waiting forever.”  
  
“So fucking impatient,” I called back, rolling my eyes. “You’d think a guy who can stop time would be better at waiting.”  
  
Dean laughed, his smile back up to its former brightness. He gestured towards the seating area with the mask. “Your public awaits.”  
  
“Great,” I muttered.  
  
He gave me a thoughtful look.  
  
“You know this isn’t actually an interrogation, right?” he murmured. “If you’d rather not talk about your evaluation, you don’t have to. Not everyone does, and no one will think badly of you for it. The whole point of this is for you to feel better, not worse.”  
  
“It’s fine,” I assured him. And, much to my surprise, it kind of was. Well, maybe not fine, precisely, but… better. I could do this.  
  
All the Wards went through this, after all. And I… I was a Ward now.  
  
Me. A Ward.  
  
Fuck. Dad was going to flip his shit when he found out.  
  
(I just hoped he didn’t take it out on Lance.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted some cut material from this chapter as a deleted scene omake: [Temptation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8362273/chapters/19156135).


	35. Aphenphosmphobia 3.08

I froze.  
  
“The… worst part of my evaluation?” I echoed stupidly, staring at Carlos.  
  
“It’s okay if you don’t want to answer,” he said, after a moment. “But sometimes it helps to talk about it.” He drew in a deep, audible breath. “I’ll go first.” Okay. I… wasn’t expecting that. “The worst part of my evaluation,” he said quietly, “was when they made me think I’d… hurt someone. Seriously hurt them.” My breath caught at the pain in his eyes. The experience might have been some way in his past, but it had clearly stuck with him. “It was a combat scenario,” he continued, his eyes on mine. “I was supposed to take out the person playing the villain as quickly as I could. There wasn’t time to think, just to react. I guess that’s what they were counting on. If I’d been able to pay more attention, I might have realised right away that my opponent had taken a dive, and that his injuries were faked.” He shrugged, and smiled a little bitterly. “It certainly gave me even more incentive to figure out how to control my strength. So there’s that, I suppose.”  
  
“I can see how it would,” I said, my voice barely more than a whisper.  
  
“I thought I accidentally wrecked a building,” Missy said, unexpectedly. When I turned to look at her, her expression gave very little away. “That wasn’t fun.”  
  
“They convinced me I’d made someone hurt themselves,” Dean said quietly. He was looking down, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Carlos reached over and gave his shoulder a squeeze, but he barely reacted.  
  
I felt… deeply uncomfortable right now. I wanted to say something, do something, but I didn’t have the first clue what.  
  
“I just ended up trapping myself with my own power,” Dennis drawled. “But I’m honestly not sure if that was actually something set up by Northeast, or if it was just me being a klutz. In any case, at least it gave me the chance to take a nap. And, after getting up at the very ass-crack of dawn, I certainly needed one of those. Trust me, getting up that early was way more traumatic that just getting stuck in the dark for a few minutes. I got it easy.” He nudged Chris. “Not as easy as you, though, tinker-boy. Right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Chris muttered, flushing and sounding uncomfortable. He gave me an awkward smile. “They test tinkers differently than everyone else. We have the medical and psychological evaluations, but they don’t really do the whole power testing thing per se, beyond what they need to confirm that we’re actually tinkers. There isn’t really much point. They just pair us with another tinker who acts as a mentor in the longer-term.” He shrugged self-consciously. “So, yeah, my evaluation was pretty much set on easy mode. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here.”  
  
“We’ve been through this before,” Carlos said firmly. “You’re a member of the team. You have as much right to be here as anyone.”  
  
“Anyway,” Dennis broke in, ruffling Chris’ hair. “You’ve got Armsmaster for a mentor. I don’t think anyone’s going to claim that you haven’t suffered.”  
  
“Armsmaster isn’t so bad,” Chris said, shoving Dennis’ hand away and smoothing down his rumpled hair. I wasn’t entirely sure whether he was defending Armsmaster because he felt he had to, or because he genuinely meant it. Either way, I approved of his loyalty.  
  
“So, they don’t stress-test tinkers to see if you’ll snap?” I asked, frowning, looking at Chris. “Why not? I mean, you could do a fuckload of damage if you went off the deep end.”  
  
“That takes prep time, though,” Chris said. “Not to mention resources.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dennis put in. “They’re more concerned about those of us who could just lash out in a fit of pique, or whatever and, say…” He pointed at Carlos. “Smack someone senseless.” Missy. “Twist space into a pretzel.” Dean. “Turn someone into a frothing rage monster.” Me. “Rip something apart with a thought. Or, apparently, blow it up.”  
  
“That makes sense,” I murmured, turning that information over in my mind.  
  
“Of course it does,” Dennis said cheerfully. “I said it.” Before I could protest that assertion, he continued in much the same tone. “So, are you going to answer the question?”  
  
Was I?  
  
I… kind of wanted to, actually. Given what they’d shared with me, I even felt a little obligated to, despite the voice at the back of my mind warning me to keep my mouth shut. So I ignored the way my stomach twisted and opened my mouth to speak.  
  
“I thought I’d killed someone,” I heard myself say. Fuck. That… was not what I was going to tell them. I was going to talk about scaring those thrice-damned tourists. But apparently my mouth had other ideas. Well, I’d started now, so I guessed I had to finish. I took a breath and explained about the search and rescue scenario gone wrong, remembering the way my heart had stuttered in my chest when I’d seen Nick lying there under a pile of rubble. Seen the blood. The way I’d had to push all that aside and do what I could to try to fix what I thought I’d broken. And then afterwards… I was ashamed at how close I’d come to breaking down. But it had been such a relief to discover that it wasn’t real. That I hadn’t killed someone after all. (I wondered if that scenario had featured in last night’s bad dreams. It wouldn’t have surprised me.) “So, that sucked ass,” I concluded.  
  
“I can imagine,” Carlos said, sympathetically. Given what he’d shared, I thought he actually could, at that. “It must have been hard, not just to think that someone had gotten hurt, or worse, but to believe it was your fault.”  
  
I nodded, wanting to look away, but somehow not able to.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, quietly.  
  
I felt… I wasn’t sure what I felt right now, honestly. Like I could understand my teammates a touch better, perhaps. And kind of like a weight had lifted, just a little bit. But also sort of really uncomfortable. Too many fucking feelings, maybe. I didn’t deal well with… feelings.  
  
“Just so you know,” he said. “The evaluators weren’t doing that to be cruel, or just because they could.”  
  
“Not just,” Dennis muttered, apparently oblivious to the irritated look Carlos levelled at him.  
  
From there, the discussion devolved into a heated debate about the pros and cons of that kind of testing. I kept out of it at first, only speaking up when it looked like it might turn into a real argument.  
  
“It’s okay,” I said, attempting a smile. “I didn’t take it personally or anything. And I’m not mad about it.”  
  
“What, really?” Chris asked, looking surprised. “I would’ve thought that, um…” He flushed, fidgeting in his seat. “I mean…”  
  
“I think what he’s trying to say,” Dennis cut in. “Is that you clearly have a pretty formidable temper, and you tend to see red when you think you’re being messed around.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Chris muttered, going even redder. “Well, not quite like that, anyway. I mean…”  
  
“Stop digging, Chris,” Dennis said, not unkindly. He focused his attention on me again, his expression curious. “So, why aren’t you swearing a blue streak right about now?”  
  
I shrugged, not really sure what to say to that.  
  
“Well, like Ae- uh, Carlos said, they weren’t doing it for shits and giggles,” I said.  
  
“I didn’t put it quite like that,” he murmured, and I stiffened, wondering if he was annoyed. A covert glance in his direction showed what looked like amusement glinting in his eyes, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  
  
“Um, sorry,” I said, just in case, wishing I didn’t sound quite so stiff. “I was paraphrasing.”  
  
“That’s okay,” he said. “But I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please, continue.”  
  
I nodded, still feeling tense.  
  
“The PRT need to make sure their new capes are field ready,” I said. “Given the kinds of things we can do, I don’t think you can blame them for wanting to make sure we’re not going to break under pressure. And if you want to test someone’s limits, you kind of have to push.” I shook my head, thinking back to yesterday. “Honestly, I’m surprised they took it so easy on me.”  
  
“You think that was taking it easy?” Chris blurted out, his expression horrified.  
  
“They made you think you’d killed someone,” Missy said in a cautious tone, looking at me askance.  
  
“Well, yeah,” I said. “But not for long. And there was a fuck of a lot else they could have done and didn’t.”  
  
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but… like what?” Dennis murmured, studying me warily.  
  
I had the sinking feeling that I’d just made a huge fucking mistake, opening this particular can of worms. And now they were all looking at me. Because of course they were. Because, apparently, I didn’t know when to keep my fucking mouth shut.  
  
“I don’t know,” I muttered, wanting to shrink into my seat. Like seeing how well I could maintain control of my power under duress. Like seeing how well I did against someone who would fight back seriously, without any of this ‘not leaving bruises’ nonsense. Like giving me real fucking stakes, real risks, rather than making everything so… safe. Like any number of things, really. “Does it matter?” I cast about for a change of subject; some way of taking the pressure off me. Much to my surprise, I actually found something. “I just remembered,” I said, sitting up a little straighter in my chair and looking at Carlos. “Nick asked about you.”  
  
Dennis looked like he was about to say something, but in my peripheral vision I saw Dean catch his eye and shake his head sharply. I was relieved. And also a little irritated, but mainly relieved.  
  
“He did?” Carlos asked, sounding puzzled. “Do we know each other?”  
  
“Yes.” I explained who Nick was, and about his role in ETA.  
  
“Huh. Cool,” Carlos said. “I’ll have to look him up the next time I go over there to act as a guinea pig for Medical.” He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. I resisted the urge to shift under his scrutiny. “So, just out of curiosity,” he asked carefully. “Did he say anything about me?”  
  
“Ah, like what?” I replied, just as carefully. I tried to maintain a poker face, but I could feel my cheeks heat up despite my best efforts.  
  
Dammit!  
  
“That’s a yes, then,” he murmured, sounding ruefully amused. “What was it?”  
  
“Are you sure you want me to answer that, S-, ah Carlos?” I asked.  
  
“Okay, you have to answer now,” Dennis said. “I, for one, am thoroughly intrigued.”  
  
“Me too,” said Chris.  
  
“Me three,” said Dean.  
  
“Four,” said Missy.  
  
Carlos sighed heavily.  
  
“You might as well go ahead,” he told me. “Neither of us will get any peace otherwise.”  
  
Fuck. I hoped he wasn’t too angry with me.  
  
“He, ah, just asked me if you were still getting in trouble with Miss Militia,” I said quietly, fighting the urge to shrink back in my seat. To my utter shock, though, Carlos just laughed.  
  
“Oh, is that all?” he said, sounding… surprisingly unfazed.  
  
“Aw, I thought it was going to be something interesting,” Dennis said, pulling a face.  
  
That was not the reaction I would’ve expected. But… maybe that meant I could actually give in to the curiosity that had been eating away at me ever since Nick had dropped that little bombshell. Perhaps if I started obliquely.  
  
“Getting in trouble with Miss Militia isn’t interesting?” I asked, directing the question at Dennis, but keeping a cautious eye on Carlos, just in case he reacted badly.  
  
“Not when it’s old news,” he said.  
  
Carlos sighed. “It’s really not that exciting,” he told me, sounding resigned. “When I first joined the Wards, they were under authority of the Protectorate and based out in the Rig. Armsmaster was technically in charge of us, but in practice a lot of the day to day stuff tended to fall to Miss Militia. Like discipline.” He hesitated for a moment, looking somewhat ill at ease, before plunging onwards in a matter-of-fact tone. “I was pretty… impatient… back then, and didn’t really see the point of a lot of the rules and regulations. So I, well…” He ran a hand through his hair, shifting in his seat. “Let’s just say that I spent a lot of time on punishment detail.”  
  
“I… see,” I said, a little thrown by the casual way he admitted to having fucked up severely enough and often enough to have been disciplined repeatedly. Wasn’t he ashamed? I was certainly downright fucking embarrassed about all the times Dad had had to discipline me. I hated that I was such a goddamned fuck-up.  
  
I hoped I’d do better as a Ward.  
  
(I wondered a little uneasily what kind of punishment could actually make an impression on a fucking brute. I wondered if his abilities had skewed his perspective on what counted as reasonable disciplinary measures for his own subordinates. Most of all, though, just I tried not to think about it.)  
  
(I resisted the ridiculous urge to rub at my no longer fractured wrist.)  
  
“So,” he said, shrugging. “Like I said, it’s nothing particularly interesting. Just an angry, impatient kid chafing at rules I didn’t see the need for.” His gaze turned distant. “Nick gave me some good advice back then. Helped me get my head on straight.”  
  
“He gave me some advice too,” I found myself offering. “Although I haven’t decided whether or not it’s good yet.”  
  
“Oh?” he asked, curiosity glinting in his eyes.  
  
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “He… took issue with some aspects of my training,” I said.  
  
Which was honestly putting it mildly. Fuck, was he right? Was I actually weakening myself overall when I kept up my routine while damaged? But Dad had always said that pain was no excuse for slacking off; that giving into pain was weakness, and I had to be stronger than that. And God help me if he ever thought I was making excuses.  
  
Then again, Dad had said a lot of things, and a lot of that was fucking garbage. So, who the fuck knew? Maybe Nick did have a point.  
  
“Let me guess,” Dennis drawled. “He objected to the part when you kept training with…” I tensed, a little shocked by the intensity of the betrayal I felt. Was he going to mention those fucking fractures? But I… Okay, I guessed I hadn’t specifically told him to keep it to himself, but surely it had been obvious that I hadn’t wanted it spread around. Hell, I hadn’t even meant to say anything in the first place, not really. It had just slipped out. And now everyone would know, and then they’d look at me with those awful pitying looks and… “About a gazillion bruises,” he finished, and it took me a moment to realise that he hadn’t said it; that he hadn’t betrayed a confidence I hadn’t actually asked for in so many words. And when I did realise, the sheer relief I felt was easily as intense as the sense of betrayal had been. “And he thought maybe you should’ve taken some time off to recover?”  
  
“Something like that,” I said, belatedly, wrestling my expression back under control.  
  
“And you don’t think that’s good advice?” Chris asked, wide-eyed.  
  
“I said I hadn’t decided yet,” I corrected, stiffly. “I’m still thinking about it.” I took a breath, trying to make myself calm down. Not that I was angry, not really, but I was uncomfortable as fuck, and when I felt ill at ease, anger was often not far behind.  
  
“Why don’t we change the subject?” Dean said tactfully. He smiled at me. “So, what was the best part of your evaluation?”  
  
The best part? I blinked at him for a moment, thrown by the question, but then the answer came to me.  
  
“I dusted a whole building,” I blurted out, before I could think better of it.  
  
There was silence for a moment, and then Dean spoke, his words careful: “Dusted as in…?”  
  
“As in turned it to dust,” I explained, so caught up in the memory of just how fucking incredible it had felt to just reach out with my power and rip it apart that it took me a moment to register that one or two of the looks being levelled my way (Dean, Carlos) were maybe a little bit disturbed. “I didn’t atomise it,” I assured them quickly, leaving out the fact that I could have done, easily. “But it was something else, being able to cut loose even that much. Normally I damp my power down a lot, so…” I was rambling now, made nervous by the continuing silence. “I thought it was kind of cool, that’s all.”  
  
“It does sound cool,” Missy said. “I remember when they finally let me go all out. That was awesome.” She sighed quietly. “Not that I really get the chance to do that here. Too many people around.” At my enquiring look, she explained: “My power doesn’t work on spaces occupied by living things. So the higher population density in the city tends to screw me over a bit.”  
  
“I can imagine,” I murmured sympathetically, trying not to think about ways of using the information against her. I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of ways to take my teammates out, but some habits were hard to break.  
  
(Anyway, if my secrets came out, I might end up having to fight them. So, better to have a plan and not need it, than to need it and be right up shit creek when it wasn’t there.)  
  
She shrugged. “I’ve learned to work around it,” she said philosophically. “And that limitation actually comes in handy for search and rescue.”  
  
“Because it lets you identify areas with people in them,” I mused. She nodded.  
  
“While we’re on the subject,” Chris said, and I tried not to tense at the curious note in his voice. “Did you figure out your power’s range?”  
  
My instinct was to hedge, or even refuse to answer outright. But then logic caught up with instinct, reminding me that I was going to have to work with these people; that they needed to have a reasonable idea of what I could do. Anyway, more pragmatically, the PRT already had this information, which would undoubtedly make its way to Carlos and, thus, to the rest of the team eventually. The only thing holding back would do was earn me ill-feeling and distrust. Why take that risk for no real gain?  
  
“I don’t think it works that way, not really,” I said. “My power doesn’t seem to have a range so much as it works on things it defines as objects.” I shrugged. “An apple, a table, a building, a road, etc.” A thought struck me, and I tilted my head thoughtfully. “I wonder if the interstate counts as an object.”  
  
“Wait a minute,” Dennis said, frowning. “So, you’re not limited by the, uh, object’s size? Not at all?”  
  
“Not as far as I’ve found,” I said. “I mean, there might be a limit, but if so I haven’t hit it yet.” A thought occurred to me, and I hesitated a moment, dithering about whether or not to say it, but in the end the temptation was just too great. “But why so obsessed with size, Dennis? Feeling a little… inadequate?”  
  
It felt like my face was on fire, but it was totally worth it to see him splutter.  
  
“I see I really have been corrupting you,” he murmured, shaking his head. “But I’ll have you know-“ He broke off as Chris suddenly started laughing hysterically, giving him a puzzled look. “It wasn’t that funny, dude,” he said, sounding aggrieved. Honestly, strange as it seemed I actually had to agree with Dennis on this one. But Chris shook his head.  
  
“Not that,” he gasped out between peals of laughter. “Although it was kind of funny s- seeing you at a… at a loss for once. No.” He wiped his eyes, grinning like a loon as he looked up. “I was just thinking. Astrid’s power works on objects, right? So that makes her a- an object-oriented p- parahuman.”  
  
And… he was gone again.  
  
I thought about it, turning the words over in my mind, and then it clicked. I groaned aloud, my lips lifting in an unwilling smile.  
  
“Chris, that was bad, and you should feel bad,” I told him, over a chorus of boos and jeers from the others.  
  
“I know,” he agreed, giving me a surprisingly sly look. “But you’re still smiling.”  
  
“You already made that joke about Dennis,” Carlos complained.  
  
“I regret nothing,” Chris said, triumphantly.  
  
The team ribbed him good-naturedly about his sense of humour, which somehow turned into a recounting of some of the worst jokes people had ever heard. However, I noticed Dennis eyeing me with a speculative expression that gave me a very bad feeling.  
  
“Hey, Astrid,” he said.  
  
“Yeah,” I said suspiciously, very conscious of the others breaking off their conversations to pay attention to the two of us.  
  
“Just out of curiosity,” he said. “While you were being poked, prodded and made to jump through hoops, did they figure out if your awesome power has any limits, or weaknesses? Anything at all?” I went very, very still. It felt like I wasn’t even breathing. “Shit,” Dennis muttered. “Sorry,” he said, a little louder, sounding off-balance. “Forget I said anything.”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” I said, making my lungs inflate by what felt like willpower alone. “You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”  
  
“You don’t have to answer that,” Carlos said quickly. He gave Dennis a sharp look. “Dennis just runs at the mouth sometimes.”  
  
But… I didn’t want Dennis to get in trouble. And, anyway, it wasn’t that unreasonable a question. Not really. (No matter how much it made me feel like the walls were closing in to even think about answering it.) Plus, the PRT already had that information. It was out there anyway, whether I liked it or not. (Not. Definitely not.)  
  
“It’s a valid question,” I said, wincing inside at how faint and thready my voice sounded. I tried to strengthen it as I continued, even managing to paste something like a wry smile on my face. “We’re going to be fighting side by side, after all. You should probably know things like that.”  
  
“We don’t necessarily have to know right now,” Dean said, and he sounded so… understanding, so reassuring, that for a moment I could barely breathe again, but this time with rage. In the next instant, I shoved the anger down and away, reminding myself that he probably wasn’t trying to call me weak. He was just trying to be nice.  
  
He was trying to be nice, that was all. It wasn’t reasonable to get mad at him for that.  
  
From the way Dean’s expression had frozen, I guessed some of that brief fit of fury had shown on my face. Fuck. Well… maybe I could distract him before he did anything dangerous like ask if I was okay.  
  
“I don’t mind,” I lied. I couldn’t quite manage a smile, so instead I aimed for a neutral expression. I thought I more or less hit my target. I took a breath. “Turns out that strong magnetic fields interfere with my power.”  
  
I was ridiculously pleased with myself for neither clenching my hands into fists nor letting my metal off its leash.  
  
“Interfere how?” Chris asked, frowning.  
  
“Cancel it out,” I said stiffly.  
  
“Damn,” Dennis said, sympathetically. “That sucks.”  
  
“Yeah,” I said quietly.  
  
“How did you find that out?” Carlos asked, but before I could answer, he added: “Oh, the MRI, of course.”  
  
I nodded, trying not to flinch at the memory. Stuck in the MRI machine, the material slipping from my power’s grasp until it disappeared altogether. Reduced to being merely human once again. (Being utterly fucking helpless.) My power returning suddenly, without warning, a deluge of information slamming unexpectedly into my wide-open mind. Frantically closing the floodgates, narrowing the flood to a more manageable trickle, only for my power to be stolen away from me once more. Going through that again and again as the magnetic field pulsed around me during the scan.  
  
Fuck. The whole thing had been like a nightmare.  
  
Or a memory. One of those times I tried not to remember. One of Dad’s attempts to force me to trigger.  
  
(Trapped in darkness and silence, eyes and ears straining uselessly for what felt like an eternity. And then, suddenly, overwhelming light and noise battered against senses made hyper alert by deprivation, the force of it damn near taking my breath away. Finally, the assault vanished as suddenly as it had begun, leaving me in darkness and silence once more. And then the whole thing began again.)  
  
(In the end, it hadn’t even worked. Just like all the other attempts.)  
  
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said, softly.  
  
Yeah. Me too. So fucking sorry.  
  
“Don’t be,” I replied, not even trying to keep the bitterness from my voice. Because of course it fucking figured that my power would have a fatal weakness. Of course it was too much to hope that for once in my life I could actually have something whole and perfect and inviolate. (Of course I’d even manage to fuck up triggering.) Of **course**. “Better to find out under controlled circumstances than out in the field, right?”  
  
“Still,” he said. “It must have been a shock.”  
  
I shrugged, not knowing what to say to that.  
  
“Did they try to figure out the details of how the field interfered?” Chris sounded weirdly subdued, all trace of his earlier mirth gone as if it had never even existed. I felt vaguely bad about that. I’d liked hearing him laugh, even if the pun itself had been pretty damned awful.  
  
“Yes, kind of,” I said, my mind flicking back to the experiments Dr Bailey and Yasmeena had come up with. “Not the why, but the how. Low level fields don’t do anything. As they increase in strength, my resolution in the affected area decreases, until it cuts out altogether.”  
  
“What does that feel like?” Carlos asked, with what seemed to be a weird mixture of sympathy and fascination.  
  
“Like the affected parts of the object just… stop existing.” I shook my head, only just holding in a shudder. “It’s fucking weird.”  
  
“Well,” Dennis said brightly. “Thank you for telling me how I can protect myself from your wrath.” He clapped Chris on the back. “Chris, my man. Old buddy, old pal. My very good friend. I’d like to commission you to make some magnets. Big-ass magnets. Like, the hugest ones you can make. With a sprinkle of tinker dust to make them extra special.”  
  
I snorted, amused despite myself.  
  
“Good luck with that,” I drawled, an unwilling grin on my lips. “Unless you get ones that can cover the whole building, you are shit out of luck. Plus, I think people might object to the PRT HQ being turned into a giant MRI machine.” I leaned forward, letting my smile turn distinctly predatory. “And if you think I need my powers to fuck with you, then you are sadly mistaken.”  
  
Alas, rather than looking intimidated in the slightest, the asshole just smirked at me. But I’d kind of expected that.  
  
“That’s so cute,” he said. I glared at him before I could stop myself, even knowing that he wanted to provoke a reaction. But then, much to my surprise, he winced and said: “Sorry. Forgot you don’t like that. Pretend I never said anything.”  
  
“I often do,” I murmured, mollified. “It makes it so much easier to remember I’m supposed to be using my words.”  
  
Dean surprised me by flicking Dennis lightly on the ear, ignoring the indignant noise he made to give me a wry smile.  
  
“Luckily, I never made any such promise,” he said.  
  
I laughed. And… I wasn’t the only one. Apparently Dennis had pissed off enough of his team mates sufficiently during his time as a Ward that none of them were averse to a little humour at his expense. He glared indiscriminately at all of us, rubbing his ear exaggeratedly.  
  
“Laugh while you can,” he said, his tone ominous. “But I will get my revenge. And it will be mighty and terrible.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris said, grinning.  
  
He said something else, laughing, but I wasn’t really paying attention. The talk of revenge reminded me that I was well overdue for some of my own, and I had an idea. For once, Dennis hadn’t been allowed to monopolise the sofa, Carlos unceremoniously kicking him off it to make room for me, the ‘guest of honour.’ I hadn’t had the heart to say I was fine with one of the chairs. Anyway, there had been a certain satisfaction in hearing Dennis’ complaints as he begrudgingly shifted his ass. So… a metal-framed chair on a metal floor. I could work with that. Doing my level best to keep the anticipation off my face, I began my task.  
  
“Astrid,” Carlos said, cutting across what was threatening to turn into a full-on bickering match between Dennis, Chris and, to my surprise, Dean.  
  
“Yes?” I said cautiously, pleased that I seemed to be able to split my attention enough to talk to him and work on inflicting my glorious revenge. And I even managed to remember not to call him ‘Sir.’ Truly, it was a day for great achievements.  
  
“Who was in charge of your medical examination?”  
  
“Dr Mackenzie,” I answered, fighting the shame that threatened to dye my cheeks crimson as I remembered how close I’d come to freaking the fuck out when she’d put her hands on my throat. Fuck, if she hadn’t warned me first, that could have been bad. Really bad. Even expecting it, I’d still ended up pulling metal from the examination table next to me, and it had taken all of my concentration not to shove her away, or worse. I was shocked she hadn’t had me disciplined for that loss of control.  
  
(Unless that was something they were planning on delegating to my immediate superior.)  
  
Carlos winced. “My condolences,” he said. “I take it she was her usual charming self?”  
  
“She was very professional,” I replied cautiously, not sure what he wanted me to say. “Although I don’t think she approved of me asking questions.”  
  
“Yeah, she doesn’t like her subjects to speak unless spoken to,” he said. “I’ve been up to Northeast a few times to act as guinea pig for some of their research, so I’ve spent a bit of time with the good doctor. I can’t say she’s really warmed up over time. And she definitely doesn’t appreciate my sense of humour.”  
  
“What kind of research projects do you take part in?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I added, watching him carefully for signs of annoyance.  
  
“Of course I don’t mind,” he said, smiling. As far as I could tell, he seemed to mean that, so I tried to stop worrying. Focusing a little more of my attention on what I was doing with my power helped with that. “There are a couple of different projects I help out with, off and on. One of them is trying to work out the mechanics of my adaptive physiology.”  
  
“Is that the one where they fill you full of radioisotopes, poke you with sharp things, and scan you for changes?” Missy asked, sounding interested.  
  
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he said, grinning. “But essentially yes.” He turned back to me. “There are a few capes acting as test subjects that project, all of whom can modify themselves in some way. The researchers are looking for points of commonality between us.”  
  
“I guess finding those points of commonality would help the PRT formulate ways of taking down brutes with similar powers,” I mused. Carlos looked at me oddly and I wondered what I’d said wrong this time. “Or, coming up with medical treatments for the ones on their side?” I tried.  
  
“Probably a little of both,” Dennis chipped in. He frowned suddenly. “Bit chilly in here all of a sudden,” he commented. “Is there a draft?”  
  
I made sure not to look in his direction. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep a straight face if I did.  
  
“I’m fine,” Missy said cheerfully.  
  
“Yeah, well, you got to sit on the sofa,” Dennis groused.  
  
She was occupying the middle cushion, to my right, and Chris was to her right. He had offered to give up his seat to me, but Carlos had insisted that Dennis be the one to move. Technically, there was probably room for four people on the sofa, but we’d have to get a little cosy. I was glad it was just the three of us.  
  
I stilled the vibrations of the bonds in the chair’s frame just a little more, slowly but surely dropping the temperature further. I wondered how long it would take for Dennis to realise that the localised indoor cold snap was due to malice, rather than misfortune. The anticipation of that moment warmed me as much as my power was cooling him.  
  
This was fun. And a good way of practicing my fine control, which meant I was actually doing something useful.  
  
“What’s the other project you’re involved in?” I asked Carlos, both because I was curious and because I needed some way of keeping my composure.  
  
“That one’s a little more complicated,” he said. “Basically, they, ah, infect me with diseases and study how I fight them off. Plus harvesting the antibodies I produce.”  
  
I stared at him, wondering if he was pulling my leg.  
  
“They infect you with diseases?” I sounded just as horrified as I felt. I dreaded to think what my expression must have looked like.  
  
He laughed. “My parents reacted just about the same way when I raised the idea with them. It… took a while before they finally agreed to sign the consent paperwork.” Grimacing, he shook his head. “And you don’t even want to know what Beth thought about the idea.” His expression grew earnest and he leaned forward a little in his seat, unexpected passion in his voice. “But it’s valuable work. It can potentially help doctors develop treatments for all kinds of diseases, and there really is very little risk to me. Plus, they’re taking it slow, starting with manageable, non-fatal disorders and building up a body of data they can use to develop a protocol for the… less manageable stuff. And they’re not allowed to try anything really nasty until I turn eighteen and can give consent on my own behalf.”  
  
“And you’d be okay with that?” I asked, fascinated. “With letting someone deliberately infect you with something like, I don’t know, ebola? Or… Or a prion disease?”  
  
He shrugged. “Potentially, yeah.”  
  
I stared at him for a long moment, and then shook my head.  
  
“You’re a better person than I am,” I said, eventually. “I hope it works out well for you.”  
  
“Thanks,” he said. He ran his hand through his hair, grinning a little ruefully. “Sorry if I rambled on.”  
  
“You didn’t,” I said, shoving away the unease I felt; the instinctive worry that maybe he was trying to lure me into saying something actionable. Something he could discipline me for. “And I did ask.” I smiled at him a little awkwardly, and cast about for an excuse to talk to someone else. Anyone else. Socialising with a superior was fucking stressful. “Are the rest of you involved in any research projects at Northeast?” I asked.  
  
“Not if I can help it,” Dennis muttered, scowling. He shivered a little. “Seriously, did someone turn the thermostat down? It’s freezing in here.”  
  
“You really are a wimp,” I couldn’t stop myself from murmuring, shaking my head.  
  
“It feels warm enough to me,” Dean said. I wasn’t sure whether or not I imagined the flicker of suspicion on his face as he looked at me. “And no, I’m not taking part in any research. I was asked, but I’m not interested.” He smiled. “Too many other things to do.”  
  
“There’s a physicist who wants to study the way I can warp space,” Missy said, flicking a concerned glance in Dean’s direction. “But I’m not sure I want to take any time off to go up there.” She pulled a face. “Especially since he didn’t even have the courtesy to contact me directly. He just put in a request to the PRT, who forwarded it to my parents, who pretty much ignored it. I only found out about it by accident. So, probably not doing that.”  
  
I frowned.  
  
“But they don’t really need your permission, right?” I asked, cautiously. “If the PRT wants you to go, won’t they just tell you to go?” I remembered a detail from the paperwork I’d gone through last week. “Assuming your parents agree, that is.”  
  
“That’s… not how it works,” Carlos said, giving me a strange look. “It’s strictly voluntary.”  
  
Dennis snorted. “Technically.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean? Chris asked, looking puzzled.  
  
Dennis grinned, but there didn’t seem to be much humour in it. “It means that participation can be strongly encouraged if you piss the wrong people off enough.”  
  
“Why would they do that?” I asked.  
  
“Because sometimes people can get unreasonably bent out of shape over completely innocuous actions,” he replied.  
  
Okay, that was interesting, but…  
  
“No,” I said, a touch impatiently. “I mean, if the PRT wants you to assist with a particular research project, why wouldn’t they just flat out tell you to do it?”  
  
Why the fuck would they bother with ‘encouragement’ when they could just give a fucking order?  
  
“Uh, because they can’t?” Dennis was looking at me with this weird mix of puzzlement and… was that pity? I channelled the instinctive flare of anger into spitefully dropping the temperature of his chair even further, and was rewarded when he shivered again, seemingly involuntarily this time. To my surprise, though, he didn’t complain about the cold again. Instead, his voice was weirdly gentle when he said: “You know we’re not soldiers, right?”  
  
“That’s what people keep telling me,” I muttered, frustrated beyond belief at all this dancing around. Sure, they had to play word games for the Youth Guard and the general public, but it was just Wards here. Couldn’t they be honest for once? Did they really have to maintain this fucking charade? “But there’s still a chain of command, so I just thought…” I trailed off, wanting to shrink into my seat under the combined weight of all their stares. I caught Dennis’ eye accidentally, and I suddenly remembered what he’d said the last time I mentioned the chain of command. I drew myself up straighter, pointing at him. “Don’t say it,” I said sharply. “Just… don’t.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to,” he said, looking utterly taken aback. “Really.” He flung one hand up in some kind of salute. “Scout’s honour.”  
  
“Good,” I said, mollified by his seeming sincerity. I felt a little bad about the fact that I’d apparently misjudged him this time, but not bad enough to stop cooling his chair down. That was an entirely separate matter, after all.  
  
“Would it kill you to look up how to do that properly?” Carlos muttered, looking pained.  
  
Dennis gave Carlos a sly, sidelong glance.  
  
“Well, we can’t all be literal boy scouts,” he said, smirking.  
  
Carlos gritted his teeth. “That’s enough of that, Dennis,” he said. Even though it wasn’t directed at me, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end at the clear irritation, maybe even anger, in his voice.  
  
“Enough of what?” Dennis asked, faux-innocently, apparently completely oblivious to the danger he was in. I, on the other hand, had to remind myself to breathe. This was goddamn ridiculous. When the flying fuck did I get so pathetic? Maybe Lance was right about me. Maybe I was just weak. “Okay.” The sheer indignation in Dennis’ voice drew me out of my thoughts. “This is ridiculous. Are none of the rest of you cold? Seriously?” He was shivering in earnest now, rubbing his hands over his goose-pimpled arms.  
  
“Now you come to mention it, perhaps there is a little bit of a nip in the air,” Chris said, sounding puzzled. I guessed that made sense considering he wasn’t that far away from Dennis.  
  
“Is that… ice?” Carlos said. Getting to his feet, he bent to take a closer look at Dennis’ chair.  
  
I did the same, a little startled to see a layer of frost forming on the metal. Huh. Maybe I’d gotten a little carried away. Maybe. It was probably a good thing the seat and back of the chair were padded. I didn’t actually want to give him frostbite, after all. I very carefully set about warming the metal back to room temperature.  
  
“What?” Dennis got up, looked at the chair as if it had personally betrayed him, and then abruptly whirled on Chris with an outraged expression. “Did you make a freeze ray or something?” he demanded accusingly. “I know you threatened to get me back for the pepper thing, but I think giving me a hypothermia is going a bit far.”  
  
“It wasn’t me!” Chris retorted indignantly, and then paused, looking thoughtful. “Although a freeze ray would be kind of cool.” He grinned. “No pun intended.”  
  
“Hey! Puns are my thing,” Dennis groused.  
  
I figured I should probably speak up before this went any further. It wasn’t exactly fair to let Dennis blame Chris, and inadvertently causing a real falling out between the two of them would not sit well on my conscience.  
  
“Getting a little worked up there, Dennis,” I said, with what I hoped was a truly obnoxious smirk. “Maybe you should chill out a little.”  
  
His head snapped around to face me so suddenly I feared he might give himself whiplash.  
  
“You did this?” he asked.  
  
“Guilty.” I gave a careless shrug. (It was fucking awesome to be able to do that without worrying about ripping open scabs or pulling on welts.) “You froze me in time, so I froze your ass. It seemed suitably poetic.”  
  
Okay, that implied it was more than a spur of the moment action, but it sounded good. For a brief moment, Dennis gave me a look of utter outrage, but that quickly faded into a narrow-eyed assessment. He inclined his head shallowly, still holding my gaze.  
  
“You realise, of course,” he said gravely. “That this means war.”  
  
“I thought we were already at war,” I drawled. “That was what you said on Saturday. Consider this merely an… affirmation of hostilities.”  
  
Dean shook his head, sighing. “Oh, this will end well,” he murmured.  
  
“What are you doing?” Chris fake-whispered. “Dennis lives for this kind of thing. It’s like getting into a land war in Asia. Or going up against a Sicilian with death on the line. Don’t. Just… don’t.”  
  
“Hypocrite,” Missy muttered, earning herself an offended look from Chris.  
  
“Bit late for that now,” I murmured, amused.  
  
Carlos groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose like he was getting a headache.  
  
“Please don’t destroy the Wards HQ,” he muttered. “At least not on my watch.”  
  
Fuck. Had I broken the rules? Was he pissed off with me? Was I in trouble?  
  
“I wasn’t really using my power on the building,” I assured him, mentally crossing my fingers. (It wasn’t that much of a fib, anyway. Not really. I’d had to bond the feet of the chair to the floor so I could affect it, but that was a minor thing.) There was an uncertain note in my voice that I hated. “And I wasn’t damaging anything.” I hoped he didn’t think I was making excuses.  
  
“Just… be careful okay?” he said, dropping his hand. (I didn’t flinch at the movement. I may have tensed a little, but I didn’t flinch. Baby steps.) He gave us each a stern look. “Both of you.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said softly, watching him carefully in case he was going to reinforce the command with violence. Not so much because I was planning on trying to stop him, but because I was going to have to keep certain reflexes in check if he did.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” Dennis echoed, mockingly.  
  
Even knowing that we were at ease — and, for that matter, that Dennis pretty much talked to Carlos the same way even when they were on duty — I still found myself holding my breath in anticipation of Carlos’ response.  
  
Various members of Dr Bailey’s team — most notably Yasmeena — had spoken to him in much the same way that the Wards seemed to talk to Carlos. Like Carlos, Dr Bailey hadn’t actually seemed to mind. More than that, if what he’d told me was true, he actively encouraged his people to treat him as equal, not a superior. I couldn’t think of any reason why he would’ve lied about that, so I guessed I’d have to take it at face value. But then, they were scientists and engineers, not soldiers. That made a difference.  
  
(I ignored the fact that people had tried to tell me that the Wards weren’t soldiers, either. Sure, on paper, maybe. On paper, the programme was about PR and playing around with powers in a ‘safe’ environment. But that was just the fiction they had to present so certain people didn’t get all up in arms about it. I knew how these things worked.)  
  
So, did Dr Bailey’s team respect him? Honestly, I wasn’t entirely certain. They liked him as a person, definitely; I had no doubts whatsoever about that. Yasmeena had pretty much directly stated she thought of him as a friend, and I thought that was the case with the others, too. As far as I’d been able to tell, they did seem to respect his skills, and regard him as an expert in his field. But neither of those necessarily meant that they respected him as a leader. Or, rather, manager. I just didn’t have enough information to reach a definite conclusion.  
  
Maybe I’d figure it out when I went back to help them with their research.  
  
Carlos gave Dennis a sharp look, and then focused on me, a small smile softening his face.  
  
“So, just out of curiosity,” he said. “How did you cool the chair?” He didn’t seem angry right now, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  
  
“Yeah,” Chris chimed in, poking at the item of furniture and frowning. “And are you warming it up again now?”  
  
“My power works on bonds,” I said, simply. “Dr Bailey had me experiment with heating and cooling things by moving and stilling bonds, respectively.” I shrugged a little awkwardly. “It worked.” I glanced at Chris. “Yes, I’m warming it up. Although I think that’s probably enough for now.”  
  
It was probably safer to let it get the rest of the way up to room temperature without my further intervention. I didn’t want to risk anyone burning themselves on it. I severed the temporary bonds I’d made between the chair and the floor, and it vanished from my awareness.  
  
“But you weren’t touching the chair,” Dennis said, frowning. “Just like you weren’t touching the floor when you stuck me to it. Does your power not need skin contact after all, or something?”  
  
I looked at him, raising my eyebrows.  
  
“Are you really expecting me to tell you all my secrets? Especially after you’ve declared war on me.”  
  
“You said yourself, we’re going to be fighting villains together,” he said slyly, not so much as missing a beat. “Doesn’t that mean you have to tell me those secrets?”  
  
Hoist by my own fucking petard. Goddammit!  
  
“Maybe you shouldn’t be pestering Astrid at her own party,” Dean said firmly. His tone brightened. “Speaking of which, why don’t we get back to it? I, for one, wouldn’t mind hitting the refreshments table again. And didn’t someone say something about games?”  
  
I could have hugged him. If I was the kind of person who gave hugs, which I emphatically was not. But I was eminently grateful to him for the change of subject. And the distraction.  
  
“Right!” Carlos said. He smiled brilliantly. “We’ve done the commiseration, now let’s get back to the celebration.”  
  
Roll on the party, I guessed. Which was not a thought I’d ever expected to cross my mind.  
  
Today was turning out to be very up and down.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Don’t you mean Pin the Tail on the Donkey?” I asked, puzzled. At least, that was my hazy recollection of the game.  
  
“Nuh uh,” Chris said, grinning conspiratorially. “This is a… slightly modified version.”  
  
“Modified how?” I asked suspiciously, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Because surely they couldn’t mean…  
  
“Feast your eyes on this beauty!” Dennis announced, holding up a cork board to which was attached a laminated, hand-drawn cartoon pig. A very obese pig with a stern expression and an severe if incongruous blonde bob, attired in an equally incongruous suit.  
  
At first, all I could do was stare, poleaxed. They surely couldn’t mean… Was this just a trick they were playing on the new girl? A mean-spirited trick to be sure, but surely they weren’t serious. Surely not even this rowdy, undisciplined bunch would engage in such blatant disrespect.  
  
I glanced around at them. They were smiling — although Dean’s smile seemed a little stiff and frozen — so maybe this was just a kind of hazing.  
  
“Are you serious?” I asked, the words emerging high and scandalised.  
  
“It’s another Wards tradition,” Carlos, of all people, told me, a slightly rueful grin on his lips. I studied him, perplexed, and the grin faded a little, uncertainty showing in his eyes. “It’s just a bit of fun, Astrid,” he added.  
  
“A bit of fun,” I echoed faintly, unable to believe what I was hearing. He was condoning this? What the fuck kind of team leader was he? (What kind of clownshoes outfit had I joined up with?) “Well, I think I’m going to sit this one out.”  
  
“What’s the problem?” Chris asked, looking confused, and slightly concerned.  
  
“The problem,” I said, making a great effort to keep my voice level and quiet, “is that it’s disrespectful and unprofessional, and I don’t want any part of it.”  
  
Was it some sort of test? Was it a trap? What the flying fuck were they thinking? What was Carlos thinking?  
  
And why were they all looking at me like I was the strange one?  
  
“Overreaction, much,” Dennis murmured.  
  
“Let’s play something else,” Carlos said decisively, his uncertainty replaced with a kind of forced-seeming cheer. “Put that away, Dennis.”  
  
“What did your last slave die of?” Dennis grumbled, but he moved to obey. He, Carlos, Chris and Missy — who’d merely watched quietly while I’d tried not to lose my shit — began what sounded like a discussion about what to play instead. I stopped paying attention around that point, though, because Dean headed over to me, and he looked like he wanted to talk. His expression seemed oddly… guilty? I wasn’t sure why, though. Maybe I was mistaken.  
  
“Sorry about that,” he began, much to my surprise. “In hindsight, I should probably have realised you might have a problem with, ah, ‘Pin the Tail on the Piggy,’ but I’m afraid it just didn’t occur to me.”  
  
I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that. Of course I fucking had a problem with it. The real question was: why the fuck didn’t anyone else?  
  
“It’s okay,” I said cautiously. “You don’t need to apologise.” After a moment’s hesitation, I added: “Maybe I did overreact.” I wasn’t really sure I believed that last part, exactly, but I could undoubtedly have expressed my objections better. I did, after all, fucking suck at this.  
  
Dean sighed.  
  
“We don’t mean any harm by it, he said softly. “It’s… just kind of a Wards in-joke. Sometimes you need a way of blowing off steam, you know? A harmless outlet for any minor personal issues with, ah, Command. Things like this — the game, the nicknames — they help.” One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “There’s a ’Pin the Beard on Armsmaster’ version of that game kicking around from when we were under the Protectorate’s authority. I admit, it’s a little immature, but there’s no harm in that sometimes.”  
  
I turned that over in my mind, trying to parse his words in a way that made something approaching sense.  
  
I guessed I could see the parallels to my own petty rebellions. The little disobediences and twists of thought that Dad would absolutely have punished me for if he’d known about them. The ways in which I defied him privately, just so I could prove to myself that I wasn’t completely broken. But to do something this blatant, with this many people involved? That was a bit beyond a private, petty rebellion: it was blatant insubordination. And it was just asking for trouble.  
  
It wasn’t like I never engaged in less subtle acts of defiance myself but, like I’d mused earlier, those were calculated affairs, done for a reason, and with the full knowledge of what I was risking. Not something done on a whim, for shits and giggles, when I still didn’t have the first fucking clue what the stakes were.  
  
But how the fuck could I even begin to explain that to Dean? And did I even want to?  
  
“I… guess I can see that,” I said slowly. It seemed that, for reasons I wasn’t entirely sure of, I actually did want to try. I just hoped I didn’t fuck it up too badly. “But it doesn’t… feel right, to mock the person at the top of our chain of command like that. And I can’t imagine Director Piggot would be too happy if she found out about it.” I shrugged stiffly. (I tried to convince myself that there was nothing constricting my airways; that no one was waiting to drag me off to the basement.) “I don’t really want to end up…” What had Carlos called it? “on punishment detail during my second week as a Ward.”  
  
Dean started to say something, and then stopped. He took a breath, and tried again.  
  
“The director isn’t going to find out,” he said, which would only have had the reassuring effect he was clearly hoping for if I’d been completely fucking naive.  
  
“Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead,” I said dryly, cracking a mirthless smile. “And can you really tell me there’s no one here who’d brag about it to someone outside the Wards? Like, say, a PRT officer they’re chatty with?”  
  
Because at least two of the Wards seemed to run at the mouth given half a chance. And once the information was out there, it was only a matter of time until it made its way to where it would do the most damage. That was pretty much guaran-fucking-teed.  
  
“Okay, maybe you have a point there,” he said, sounding reluctant. In a stronger voice, he continued: “But neither Director Piggot nor Armsmaster have ever shown any signs of knowing about this game, nor about their nicknames. And this is hardly the first time it’s ever come up.”  
  
I really wanted to ask about the other nicknames, especially the ones for Armsmaster, but I tamped down my curiosity. It would have been more than a little hypocritical of me.  
  
“That doesn’t mean they don’t know,” I pointed out. “Only that they haven’t done anything about it yet.”  
  
I didn’t know why they wouldn’t, but maybe they were just hanging onto it until they really wanted to bring the hammer down on someone.  
  
“They can’t actually punish us for something like this,” he said, still gamely trying to… what? Cheer me up? “Not as long as we just keep it between us. And no one’s actually going to call Armsmaster or Director Piggot ‘Beardmaster’ or ’Piggy’ to their faces. Not even Dennis or Sophia would be that rude.”  
  
I wasn’t sure I entirely believed that, especially of Sophia, considering the not even veiled contempt with which she treated Carlos, but I supposed Dean had known both of them for much longer than I had.  
  
I sighed softly, not entirely able to keep the frustration I felt from showing in my face and voice.  
  
“Even if they can’t technically punish someone for disrespect expressed privately.” Which I didn’t really believe, but whatever. Dean either believed what he was saying, or he was a very good liar. Either way, there wasn’t really much point in calling him on it. “There’s nothing stopping them finding a reason to do it anyway.” Bitterness rose up inside me, spilling out into words I didn’t really mean to say, but couldn’t keep back. “There’s always a fucking reason.”  
  
“Astrid,” Dean said. His voice cracked, and I jerked my head up to look at him, not entirely certain when I’d looked away in the first place. The expression on his face was almost pained, but he softened it when I met his eyes, although he didn’t quite seem to be able to manage a smile. “I know it’s probably hard for you to believe, but that isn’t how things work here.”  
  
I shrugged, the instinctive, inevitable flare of anger guttering and dying almost as quickly as it was born, smothered by cynical weariness.  
  
“We’ll see,” I muttered. I glanced over at the others, who seemed to have wrapped up their discussion and be waiting for the two of us to finish ours. “So,” I called out. “Did you reach a decision? What are we playing now?”  
  
Anything to change the fucking subject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted some cut material from this chapter as a deleted scene omake: [Musical Chairs](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8362273/chapters/19177057).


	36. Aphenphosmphobia 3.09

All in all, I reflected, following a surprisingly rousing game of charades, this wasn’t actually a bad way to pass the time. (I very carefully didn’t think about all the work I could have been doing instead.) I’d actually done rather better than I would’ve expected, although it helped that Missy had apparently read a lot of the same books I had when I was younger. I was amused that the bulk of the overlap seemed to be in two specific categories: stories set in English boarding schools, and books about seemingly ordinary kids from earth getting pulled into fantasy realms, or ending up having grand adventures in space. Of course, I did kind of abysmally at films and music, but so it went.  
  
In the wake of all this team-building stuff, though, there was something that was bugging me a little. I took advantage of a lull in the conversation raise the subject.  
  
“So, couldn’t Sophia make it?” I asked casually. I wasn’t trying to make a big thing about it. I was just curious.  
  
“She… doesn’t really tend to take part in team social events,” Dean said diplomatically.  
  
“That’s an understatement and a half,” Chris muttered, and then smiled at me. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”  
  
Missy made a derisive noise. “We tried to throw one of these parties for her, back when she joined. She said it was lame and walked right out again. It’s probably just as well she’s not here.”  
  
“Missy,” Carlos said, a note of reproach in his voice. (Even though it wasn’t directed at me, I still felt found myself tensing a little.)  
  
“Sorry,” she muttered, scowling. She didn’t sound especially apologetic. “But you know you’re all thinking it.”  
  
I found myself wondering, again, about the difference between respect and fear. If it really was possible to have the former without the latter. Seraph and Murphy hadn’t seemed to fear Captain Cavendish, but I thought… I wasn’t entirely certain, but I thought they did respect him. I… respected him for his position and his competence and his clear regard for the people under his command. But I was also… Not afraid; I wasn’t afraid. But I was… wary. Cautious. I didn’t want him to discipline me. And I… liked him? Even though I didn’t know him all that well. His opinion mattered to me, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. Was that respect? And would I still feel it if he wasn’t a duty officer? If he didn’t have the right to give me orders? If he didn’t have the right to discipline me?  
  
How the fuck could I even begin to untangle all of that?  
  
“I resent that accusation,” Dennis said, with what I was pretty sure was fake, or at least largely fake indignation. It was honestly hard to tell with him sometimes.  
  
“Don’t you mean you resemble it?” Chris asked, nudging him with his elbow. “That’s what you usually say.”  
  
“No, I meant resent this time,” Dennis insisted haughtily. “Scary Stalker isn’t so bad.”  
  
“Yeah, I know exactly how much you admire her,” Dean murmured dryly, smirking in a way I’d only seen when he was withVictoria. It seemed she wasn’t the only person around whom he acted differently. Or… maybe I had things backwards. Maybe he didn’t act differently around them. Maybe he just acted differently around me. Maybe he just pitied me.  
  
But if I thought about that too hard, I was just going to get angry, and this really wasn’t the time.  
  
Anyway, I appreciated the way that he didn’t stand too close, or move too suddenly, or try to touch me. I did. It made it easier to be around him. So what was the point in fretting about the reasons behind it?  
  
Searching for something to distract myself, I hit upon a vaguely amusing thought.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Chris asked, curiously.  
  
“Oh, nothing really,” I said, a little startled to realise I was smiling. “I was just wondering how Sophia would react if I challenged her to a game of musical chairs.”  
  
Chris looked at me a little oddly.  
  
“I don’t think you generally challenge people to party games,” he said. “And, even if you did, I can’t really see Sophia accepting. Something tells me musical chairs wouldn’t exactly be hardcore enough for her.”  
  
I shrugged, my smile widening.  
  
“Then maybe you’re doing it wrong.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Music requests?” I repeated blankly, stupidly, like the extra few seconds would give me chance to think of something that didn’t sound awkward as fuck.  
  
Apparently, parties, like computer games and talking to people, were just another thing I sucked at.  
  
“Yeah,” Chris said, smiling at me. “It’s your party after all. You should get to choose the music.”  
  
Currently, we were enjoying the sound of silence, Dennis having loudly protested Carlos’ choice of playlists.  
  
“Sorry, I should have asked what you wanted me to put on,” Carlos said, smiling at me.  
  
“Yes, you should,” Dennis told him snippily. “I thought we’d already established that you are not allowed to make musical decisions, even if you are the boss. Remember the road trip from hell? I certainly do. Nothing but rock and hair metal for three. Solid. Hours!”  
  
I really did not understand him. It was like he was daring Carlos to discipline him for his blatant disrespect. But it wasn’t just Dennis. Sophia, too. And even the others… Not that they quite so blatantly disrespected him, but I didn’t get the sense that they respected him, either. Liked him, for sure, but not respected him. Not the way Murphy and Seraph seemed to respect Captain Cavendish. So where the fuck did that fit into the grand scheme of things?  
  
I needed to try to figure it out.  
  
In the end, Carlos just laughed in response to Dennis’ complaint.  
  
“You’re exaggerating,” he said cheerfully. “It wasn’t that bad.”  
  
“I assure you it was!” Dennis protested. “Not all of us are headbangers. Some of us actually like our eardrums. And I’m pretty sure my hair had turned into a mullet through osmosis or some shit by the the end of the journey.” He pulled a face. “Ugh, Journey.”  
  
Taking a quick glance around, I noticed that Missy was looking as baffled as I felt. That actually made me feel a little better about not getting the reference. Even if she was a middle schooler.  
  
“Can’t go wrong with the classics,” Carlos said. His smile turned a little sly. “Thanks for reminding me, though, Dennis. I’ll be sure to queue some up. Especially for you.”  
  
“Nooooo! Anything but that!” Dennis pressed a hand to his forehead and then abruptly whirled to face me. “Save us, Astrid!” he pleaded. “You’re our only hope!”  
  
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” I asked, in some bemusement.  
  
“Choose some music that doesn’t suck,” he said, like it was obvious. Which brought me right back to my original dilemma.  
  
“Um,” I said as my mind went completely blank.  
  
“Just pick something you like,” Chris said encouragingly. That… didn’t actually help as much as he obviously assumed it would.  
  
“I really don’t mind,” I said, shrugging. “Just put on whatever.”  
  
“There must be something,” Dean said. I glanced over to see a slight frown on his face, but it disappeared when he saw me looking, replaced by one of his dazzling smiles. “It’s okay if you can’t think of a name off the top of your head. Personally, I’m terrible at remembering the names of artists I like.” I actually doubted that, but I appreciated that he was trying to throw me a lifebelt as I once more floundered in the treacherous waters of social interaction. “Why don’t you just give us a genre?” he suggested.  
  
This felt like a test. (It felt like I was failing.)  
  
But I couldn’t just stand here like an idiot. I needed to say something. I made myself smile, aiming for a casual tone, like I wasn’t stressing out over such a straightforward question.  
  
“I don’t really listen to music,” I said. “So I wouldn’t know what to pick. Really, just put on anything. I don’t mind.”  
  
“Don’t you like music?” Missy asked, giving me a puzzled look.  
  
“I don’t have strong feelings about it one way or the other,” I said, wanting nothing more in this moment than to not be on the spot any more. Was that really so much to ask?  
  
“Let’s just shuffle it for now,” Dean said, suiting the action to the words. He turned to smile at me at he fiddled with the sound system. “Speak up if there’s anything you particularly like, okay?”  
  
“I will,” I said, so relieved I even managed to smile back at him.  
  
Soon enough, something fairly inoffensive started up and the festivities resumed. I was half expecting Dennis to make some snarky comment at my expense but, perhaps in a rare moment of heeding what passed for his survival instinct, he actually left me alone. Soon enough, he, Carlos and Dean were engaged in a fairly animated discussion about music. Missy drifted over there, but she seemed content to mostly listen to the three of them. I was just starting to relax a little when I noticed Chris eyeing me thoughtfully. I accidentally caught his eye, and he seemed to take that as an invitation to speak.  
  
“So, you don’t listen to music at all?” he asked a little hesitantly. “Not ever?” I shook my head, using the excuse of food to stay silent. He frowned. “Not even when you go running? Or while you’re working?”  
  
I shook my head again.  
  
“It’s a distraction,” I found myself saying, wincing inside as the words emerged clipped and brusque. Chris gave me an uncertain look and I immediately felt guilty. That reminded me that I’d hit him hard enough to bruise when I’d knocked him to the mat last week and all of a sudden it was like I was made of guilt. So, rather than just leaving it there, I made myself keep talking, making my tone softer, friendlier. “When I go running, I need to maintain my situational awareness. Impairing my hearing would make that harder.”  
  
“Oh,” he said. “That makes sense, I guess.” A disturbed look crossed over his face. “Especially if you go running in the kinds of places where people get attacked on the street.” I almost regretted telling him about that. He still seemed freaked out about it, no matter how many times I tried to reassure him that it had only been a couple of times and, anyway, I could take care of myself. “But what about when you’re studying? Or practicing with your powers? I mean, I always put music on when I’m doing my homework, or messing around in the workshop, or whatever. I can’t just sit in silence. It would drive me completely mad.”  
  
I opened my mouth to repeat that it was a distraction, but found myself hesitating, reluctant to say something that just sounded like a brush off. I’d hurt him, and without even meaning to. I owed him something for that, didn’t I?  
  
“I used to have a radio,” I said softly. “I’d listen to it sometimes when I was working. The reception wasn’t great, but it could pick up a few decent stations here and there. I listened to all kinds of stuff on it. Music, talk shows, documentaries, plays… Whatever I could find.” I sighed softly. “I loved that thing.”  
  
For a while, that crappy old radio had been a lifeline. It was probably stupid, but when I’d first realised that friends were a weakness I couldn’t afford, when I’d made the choice to start cutting the ties I had and not allow myself to form new ones, having it had helped me feel a little less alone. A little less lonely. When I’d felt stifled by the echo chamber of my home, it had given me a way out; a connection to the outside world. And it had been another of my petty rebellions; to deliberately let views and voices that Dad wouldn’t approve of into his house. I’d known it was a stupid risk. There were other, safer lifelines. Like books. Like the computers in the library or, if I was careful, at school. I’d known all that, but I hadn’t cared.  
  
Not until I got caught.  
  
“What happened to it?” Chris was looking at me with an expression of frank curiosity. I could have lied, could have told him I’d simply lost it or broken it or something, but I looked at him and I found myself wanting to be honest.  
  
“My dad confiscated it,” I said softly.  
  
I was usually so good about staying alert, keeping an ear out for Lance or Dad. But I’d gotten… distracted; gotten caught up in what I was listening to. Funny thing was, I didn’t even remember what that was; couldn’t recall what had enthralled me so much that I’d forgotten to be careful. The only thing I knew for sure was that, whatever it had been, Dad had emphatically not approved.  
  
“Why did he do that?” Chris asked, frowning.  
  
“Because I did badly on a test at school,” I said.  
  
Because there was honesty, and then there was honesty. Oh, my answer was true — the test had been one of the things he’d punished me for on that particular occasion — just not complete. And I just wasn’t comfortable introducing a subject that might lead down a slippery slope towards the revelation that my family were fucking nazis. I mean, Sophia knew about Lance’s Empire friends, so I had to assume that bombshell, at least, was on a timer. But I’d just as soon not give anyone any more chances to put the pieces together.  
  
“How badly did you flunk it?” Chris looked sympathetic. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.  
  
“I got a B minus,” I said, scowling down at the floor. Yeah, I might not have remembered what I’d been listening to that had made Dad lose his shit, but I did remember that grade. I remembered all of them.  
  
“What?” Chris sounded thoroughly shocked. “Seriously?”  
  
“Yeah,” I said. I sighed. “Dad was really disappointed.”  
  
Disappointed? He was fucking furious. I had a goddamn legacy to live up to, after all. A leader had to be smart. A leader had to be focused. And a leader had to stay true to the fucking cause and not pollute their mind with… whatever it was I’d been listening to.  
  
“But that’s…” Chris gestured vaguely. “I would kill to get a B minus on a math test. That’s not flunking. It’s a good grade. And your dad was disappointed?” His voice had been steadily rising, and I tensed a little as curious glances were directed our way.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“It wasn’t an A,” I said, simply, quietly. “Which meant it wasn’t perfect. Anything less than perfection is failure, and failure is unacceptable.” Somewhere along the way, my voice had picked up a hard, bitter edge as I thought about how I tried so fucking hard to reach the standards my father set for me, to be perfect. Tried, and fell short. “So I had to be punished.”  
  
“That’s why he took your radio away?” Chris asked.  
  
“Yeah,” I said.  
  
Chris studied me for what felt like a long time, swallowing before he spoke. His voice was barely louder than a whisper.  
  
“That wasn’t all he did, was it?”  
  
Not quite a question. Not quite a statement.  
  
“No,” I found myself saying.  
  
I had a moment of panic at the fact that I was breaking the rules, that I was talking about things I was forbidden from discussing with strangers. But then a realisation hit me like a punch to the gut: it didn’t matter. These people already knew something of how Dad disciplined me, even if they didn’t exactly have the full story. What difference did it make if I actually talked about it? And as for what Dad would do, well, he wasn’t here. And if he did get his hands on me, there were far more severe infractions he was going to punish me for. So what the fuck did it matter if I talked?  
  
There was a strange kind of freedom in that, even though I half-regretted my answer as Chris stared at me with something that looked way too close to pity for my liking.  
  
Goddammit!  
  
I should have known he wouldn’t understand. His parents were clearly much more lenient with him than Dad was with me; lenient enough that his perspective was skewed. I should have just kept my damn mouth shut.  
  
I **wasn’t** a fucking victim.  
  
And I didn’t need anyone’s goddamn pity.  
  
Chris took a step towards me and I tensed, shifting my weight a little, my metal starting to move before I stopped it. (Just because he didn’t seem to be a threat didn’t mean I was going to do anything stupid like let my guard down.) He froze, blinking owlishly at me, and I wondered if my expression looked half as wary as I felt.  
  
“Uh, I kinda want to hug you right now,” he said, giving me a slightly sickly grin.  
  
“Don’t,” I said sharply, and then immediately regretted my tone when Chris looked stricken. “It’s nothing personal,” I added, in a softer voice. “I just don’t like to be touched.” I forced myself to smile, even though I was sure it probably looked ghastly. “Anyway, given my reflexes, I’d probably knock you on your ass if you tried, and I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
Again, my treacherous mind supplied. I didn’t want to hurt him again.  
  
“Sorry,” he muttered, stepping back again. He eyed me cautiously for a moment, and then smiled. “I wasn’t actually going to,” he assured me. “It just took a moment for my brain to catch up with my body, that’s all.” His smile wilted a bit around the edges. “I still feel like I want to, though.”  
  
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to keep a lid on the annoyance flooding me at this blatant display of pity. This; this was why talking to outsiders was a bad idea. Especially fucking squeamish ones. “It wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Anyway, it was my own stupid fault for fucking up the test.”  
  
And for being careless.  
  
Chris opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again. He took a breath and tried again.  
  
“Did you ever get your radio back?” he asked, and he was clearly making an effort to sound casual.  
  
“No,” I said, doing the same.  
  
Dad had broken the radio well beyond my ability to repair it. I wasn’t sure I could have fixed it even now, with my power. Seeing it in pieces… it had hurt more than I would’ve expected. Fuck, even remembering it hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the rest of the punishment Dad had meted out. So stupid. It was stupid then and it was stupid now. The radio was just a thing. There was no point in getting attached to things. Things could always be taken away, or broken, or left behind. Caring about them was just asking for trouble.  
  
The irony of my power-induced possessiveness over inanimate objects was not lost on me.  
  
“Did you ever think about getting another one?” he asked. “Or maybe even a zune or something?”  
  
“I thought about it,” I said. I’d even started to save money from my allowance with a vague thought of buying something small and portable. Something easily hidden. (Then again, I always saved money from my allowance whenever I could. Just in case.) “But, in the end, I didn’t really want one after all.”  
  
I’d decided to run instead, putting the money I’d saved towards the only escape attempt I’d ever made before this one. But after that utter fucking fiasco, I hadn’t exactly been minded to defy my father again right away. And when, after all the fuss had died down, I finally thought again about getting another radio, or whatever, I just felt… It made me… It seemed like it would have been another reminder of how weak I’d been, when it really counted.  
  
(A monument to broken things.)  
  
Whatever. It didn’t matter.  
  
Chris gave me a look that seemed way too shrewd for my liking; like he could see exactly what was going through my mind. Or maybe I was just reading too much into it.  
  
“You know, no one’s going to confiscate your stuff any more,” he said, like he honestly believed that. “I mean, I’m not trying to be pushy or anything, and if you don’t like music then you don’t like music. But… it kind of sounds like… that’s not actually the case? So, you could just get yourself a radio, or whatever you wanted. If you do decide you want to. But you totally don’t have to and, like I said, I’m not trying to be pushy or anything. And… I’m rambling again, aren’t I?” He grinned sheepishly at me.  
  
“Maybe a little," I said, smiling back at him to show I wasn’t trying to be mean. “But not in a bad way. And I didn’t think you were being pushy, don’t worry.” I honestly doubted he was actually capable of being anything even close to pushy, but I kept that thought to myself. “Perhaps I will get a new radio,” I said, surprising myself. “I don’t know.”  
  
After all, it wasn’t the radio’s fault I’d been punished. (It wasn’t the radio’s fault I’d been broken.) And it was stupid to get all wound up over a… a… mere thing. So, maybe I would get one.  
  
Maybe.  
  
“Well, it’s not like you have to decide right away,” Chris pointed out, sounding more sure of himself. “Anyway, there’s always the sound system here. And if you’re working on the computer, you can always listen to stuff on there.”  
  
“I guess,” I said, and it was apparently my turn to sound hesitant and uncertain. I deliberately tried to strengthen my voice, adding a rueful tone as I said, not-quite-jokingly: “Sorry for bringing down the mood. I guess I’m just kind of shit at parties.”  
  
“That’s not true,” Chris assured me, doing a truly impressive job of sounding like he meant it. “Anyway, I did ask.” His smile faltered a little. “I really didn’t mean to pry.”  
  
“You weren’t, don’t worry,” I said; my turn to deliver reassurances. But this was feeling really fucking awkward, so I cast about for something to try and lighten the mood a little. “So, what kind of music do you like? Do you have any recommendations?”  
  
His face practically lighting up, he launched into a long, rambling discourse about artists and songs I’d never even heard of.  
  
And as I listened to him talk, I found myself smiling in response.  
  
Maybe there was something to this party thing after all.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Alright, everyone, gather round,” Carlos said brightly. “I think it’s time.”  
  
I looked towards him, curious but a little confused. I thought all the ‘post-evaluation ritual’ stuff was done now.  
  
“Cake time?” Dennis asked, with clear eagerness, and I found myself perking up.  
  
For once, Dennis and I were in complete agreement. The cake looked pretty damn impressive. Sure, I’d eaten more than I needed to already, but I still had room, and that cake definitely looked like it would be worth stepping up my exercise routine for. Anyway, this was a party in my honour (and there was a phrase I never thought I’d have reason to think), and Carlos himself had brought the cake in from home. It would be rude not to partake.  
  
I idly wondered if he’d told his brother what the occasion was.  
  
“Not quite yet,” Carlos replied. Dennis wilted a little, and I was rather embarrassed to realise I did the same. I hoped no one had noticed. From the way Missy was looking at me, though — her eyes sparkling and her lips pressed together as if she was suppressing a smile — I suspected I wasn’t that lucky. “There’s something we need to do first, remember.”  
  
He cast a meaningful look over at the corner of the table where they’d previously stowed the ‘ritual tome and vestments’ and Dean’s camera. A look of enlightenment dawned on Dennis’ face. Dean merely smiled, Missy didn’t give much away and Chris’ face practically lit up. I wondered if I should be worried.  
  
Carlos turned to look at me and I straightened automatically, hoping my face showed nothing more than curiosity.  
  
“Astrid, would you please turn around for a moment?” he asked.  
  
Turn my back on them? Was this some weird kind of trust exercise?  
  
“Sure,” I said, hoping I managed to avoid giving away how uneasy that made me. I did as he asked, resisting the urge to discreetly form a mirror from my metal. I tried to tell myself that it probably — almost certainly? — wasn’t anything bad, but I still couldn’t quite banish the pickling between my shoulder blades; couldn’t make myself stand down. From behind me came footsteps, shuffling sounds, and… crinkling paper? Nothing obviously sinister. Not that I suspected them of nefarious intent, not really. I was just a little… cautious. That was it, just caution.  
  
I was, however, relieved when Carlos finally said:  
  
“Okay, you can turn back now.”  
  
They were all lined up, each of them apparently holding something behind their backs. I was debating with myself whether I should ask what was going on, or wait for it to be revealed, when Carlos cleared his throat and then they all… burst into song.  
  
‘Happy Birthday.’  
  
The Wards were singing ‘Happy Birthday.’ To me.  
  
This was fucking surreal. But… not unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact, and after that first moment of complete and utter shock, something warm kindled in my chest, building and spreading until I couldn’t help letting it spill out into a smile so wide it almost made my cheeks ache. And when they were done, I even applauded.  
  
(I hoped they didn’t think I was being sarcastic. It just… seemed like the right thing to do.)  
  
“Thank you,” I said, when they were done. “That was great.”  
  
Honestly, as far as actual musical quality went, it was pretty much what you’d expect from pretty much any random sample of people: generally pretty unremarkable to vaguely pleasant, with the odd outlier who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket (Chris, alas) or who had a particularly melodious voice (surprisingly, Dennis). But it wasn’t any kind of technical quality that made it so remarkable, it was the intent behind it.  
  
They’d done this for me. They hadn’t had to, and it wasn’t even an apology or anything as far as I knew. They’d just… chosen to do something nice.  
  
Distantly, I thought I should probably be thoroughly embarrassed at how much this was affecting me. (It didn’t mean they were my friends. It didn’t mean they wouldn’t turn on me. It didn’t mean I could afford to let my guard down.) Worse, how much I was showing them that it affected me. But, weirdly, that just didn’t seem important right now.  
  
God, I probably looked like an idiot, grinning like a loon, undoubtedly blushing bright scarlet, completely and utterly overreacting to such a simple gesture. But… Eh, fuck it. So what if I was making a complete fool of myself right now? I was fucking happy. I was allowed to enjoy that, right? (No one was going to punish me for slacking off. Not this time.)  
  
And the best part was that, sometime soon, I would get to eat what looked like a truly awesome cake!  
  
I couldn’t wait.  
  
“Glad you liked it,” Carlos said, and he was positively beaming. He stepped forward, holding out a small, brightly wrapped package. “Happy birthday, Astrid.”  
  
I… may possibly have just stared dumbfoundedly at him for a moment or two before my brain rebooted itself and I accepted the present.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound half as awkward as I felt. “You really didn’t have to get me anything. But, um, I appreciate it. Thank you.”  
  
I made myself stop talking. Maybe if my mouth was shut, I’d manage not to insert my other foot in it.  
  
“You’re very welcome,” he said, politely not mentioning my complete lack of social graces.  
  
“What’s the point of a birthday without presents?” Dennis said, brandishing a parcel of his own.  
  
Apparently, that was the signal for everyone else to produce the birthday presents they’d been concealing behind their backs. I looked around at them all, completely and utterly overwhelmed.  
  
“Thanks, all of you,” I managed to stammer out. “Um, maybe you could set them down somewhere, though? I’ve only got one pair of hands, and I don’t want to drop anything.”  
  
“Let’s go and sit down so you can open them,” Chris said, smiling.  
  
“You want me to open them now?” I said, uncertainly.  
  
“Sure, it’ll be fun,” Dennis said enthusiastically. His expression turned sly as he added: “Besides, I kind of want to see your face when you see what I’ve got for you.”  
  
Goddamn it!  
  
On the plus side, I was already blushing so much, I probably couldn’t actually blush any harder right now. Probably. Although, if anyone could find a way to make that happen, it would almost certainly be Dennis.  
  
“Dennis,” Carlos said reproachfully, and then the asshole was all innocence again.  
  
“What?” he asked guilelessly.  
  
Carlos narrowed his eyes at Dennis for a moment longer, and then turned to me with a smile.  
  
“If you’d rather not make this a spectator sport, you don’t have to,” he said. “This is your party, after all.”  
  
Well, when he put it that way… Actually, I didn’t mind. And curiosity was pretty much eating me alive, and I could hardly disappear off to my room right now to open them all in private.  
  
“It’s fine,” I said. I glanced over in Dennis’ direction and, in a dry tone, added: “Besides, if Dennis has got me anything… objectionable… he’s going to be in smacking range when I open it. So, that’s a plus.”  
  
Carlos laughed. Dennis, on the other hand, looked concerned. I was reasonably sure the worry was at least partially put on, but I guessed it remained to be seen. A short while later, I was seated on the sofa, with most of my new acquisitions arrayed beside me and Carlos’ gift in my hands. It seemed polite to start with his.  
  
“Hey,” Chris said, suddenly. “Does your power let you know what’s inside?”  
  
“Technically yes,” I said. “But I’m damping it down.”  
  
I may possibly have already peeked at Carlos’ gift by accident when he first handed it to me. Sending my power through anything I made contact with was pretty much a reflex at this point. So I knew what it was made of, and I knew its structure, but I hadn’t actually figured out what it was. I’d try not to look too closely at the others before I unwrapped them, though.  
  
“Hey, save the power stuff for later,” Dennis said mock-sternly. “Just open the presents before we die of old age.”  
  
“So impatient,” I murmured, rolling my eyes. But maybe he had a point. Not that I’d be telling him that.  
  
I turned the neatly-wrapped package around so the seam was facing up. The paper was blue with ‘Happy Birthday’ written on it over and over in brightly coloured block capitals. More out of curiosity than anything else, I traced out the pieces of tape holding the wrapping together with my power, and then simply… severed those bonds. After that, I could simply lift the tape off and fuse it together in a little ball of cellulose acetate and miscellaneous polymers that I set carefully to one side. With that done, I set about carefully unwrapping the paper, folding it and also setting it aside next to the ball of tape.  
  
“Just tear it off!” Dennis said. “That’s half the fun.”  
  
“Seems awfully wasteful,” I said guilelessly. Which it was, but that wasn’t the only reason I was taking my time. Seeing Dennis practically vibrate with anticipation was fucking hilarious. Somehow, though, I managed to keep the smirk from my face.  
  
“It’s wrapping paper,” Chris said. “That’s pretty much what it’s there for.”  
  
In lieu of trying to muster up a response to that, I focused my attention on the box I’d unwrapped, opening it up.  
  
“Jewellery,” I murmured, a little surprised. I’d known there were metal objects inside a cloth-lined, plastic box, but I hadn’t known what they were. I trailed my fingers over the matching bronze earrings, necklace and bracelet, smiling a little. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”  
  
It may have felt a little awkward, saying that, but it was the truth. Something about the simple elegance of the design — a repeated motif of criss-crossed lines — really appealed to me. Not that I tended to wear jewellery — aside from to camouflage my metal — but this seemed like the kind of thing I might have chosen, if I did.  
  
“Way to live the stereotype, man,” Dennis muttered, somewhat mystifyingly. Carlos ignored him to smile at me.  
  
“I’m glad you like it,” he said, sounding relieved, and a maybe a little rueful. “I can’t really take any credit, though. I sort of roped my sisters into helping me pick something. And by ‘helping,’ I mean, they pretty much took over the whole thing. I just followed their instructions. Marisol assures me that the design is very ‘in’ right now, whatever that means. So, um, yeah.” He shrugged, and then a moment later added. “But there’s a gift receipt in the box, so you can always exchange them for something else if you want.”  
  
“No, it’s fine,” I said, because he seemed to need the reassurance. “I like them.” (In a distant part of my mind, I made note of the fact that he had sisters, as well as a brother. I wondered if they were older or younger. It certainly sounded like he and his siblings got on better than Lance and I did.)  
  
I guessed it was a good thing I’d let Victoria talk me into getting my ears pierced during Saturday’s shopping trip.  
  
“Great,” Dennis said. “Now open mine.”  
  
Just for that, I picked up Chris’ gift next. And I purposefully took my time unwrapping it. The wrapping job was a little more haphazard than Carlos’ present — I did like the silver paper, though — and the package itself was oddly shaped, which meant it took a little more effort to open it up without damaging the paper. I succeeded eventually, though, revealing… a pair of sparring gloves.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, confused. What was Chris trying to say?  
  
“I thought you might like to have your own set,” Chris said, shifting in place with what looked like nervousness. “And hopefully they’ll fit a little better than the ones in the gym. Plus, you’ll be able to break them in properly.”  
  
I very nearly reiterated that I didn’t need gloves on account of I wasn’t a fucking wimp, but I kept the words inside, telling myself firmly that he meant well. It wasn’t his fault he’d been coddled. He was just trying to do something nice.  
  
“I appreciate the thought,” I told him, honestly. I even managed a smile. “Maybe we can test them out when I start teaching you. If you still want me to, that is.”  
  
“Oh, uh, yeah. I’d like that,” he said.  
  
“Really?” Missy said, sounding sceptical. “Because you usually try to avoid sparring practice like the plague for as long as Carlos lets you get away with it.”  
  
“That’s not true,” he muttered unconvincingly, flushing. “I mean, sure, maybe it’s not my most favourite thing ever, but Astrid convinced me it’s a useful skill to have.”  
  
“By knocking you on your ass?” Missy said sweetly. I suppressed a wince, wondering if I maybe shouldn’t have said anything after all. I hadn’t been trying to humiliate Chris. I just hadn’t wanted Missy to think I was taking it easy on her because I didn’t think she was up to it. Fortunately, Chris seemed to take the barb with more or less good grace.  
  
“Something like that,” he said, and despite the flush that coloured his cheeks, he managed something approaching a dignified tone.  
  
“Just… be careful, both of you,” Carlos said, frowning, although I was pretty sure that was actually directed at me. “Astrid, please try to remember that we do things differently here to what you’re used to.”  
  
“I will,” I assured him. (I wondered if he was going to teach me a lesson about control. Sure, Dennis hadn’t seemed to think he was planning on that — and Chris had apparently asked him to be lenient with me — but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, there was no point in worrying about it now. I tried to banish those thoughts from my mind.)  
  
I reached for the next present. Missy’s gift was also a slightly odd shape, curving out from a flat, round base and then narrowing, and then curving out again. I had my suspicions as to what it might be even before I removed the plain green wrapping paper to reveal a deep blue ceramic vase.  
  
“I thought it might brighten up your room a little,” Missy said.  
  
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.” I did like the colour. I wasn’t really one for flowers, but I supposed I’d have to get some to put in it. I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful, after all.  
  
Carefully setting the vase to one side, I picked up Dean’s present; a flat, squarish box wrapped in very thick, high quality paper tied with ribbon. The paper had a brightly coloured tie-dye pattern on a white background, almost fractal-looking, and the ribbon was a deep purple. I definitely wanted to keep those. (I ignored the little voice in the back of my mind that scoffed at the thought; that sneered none of these things were useful or necessary. That this whole exercise was an indulgence; a weakness. A waste of time. No prizes for guessing who it sounded like.) The box itself was wooden, not plastic, and tastefully labelled with the name of the shop in a flowing, cursive script. It was a name I recognised: one of the shops Victoria had insisted we visit on Saturday. Not a clothes shop, surprisingly, but one that sold all sorts of curios and ornaments; all handmade, and all fairly pricey. I had a feeling I knew what was inside the box. Sure enough, when I opened up the lid, I saw a large dreamcatcher nestling on the velvet lining. It was dyed in shades of orange, yellow, purple and blue, and strung with pieces of sea glass that glittered in the light. Looking at it made me think of sunrise over water.  
  
“You noticed,” I murmured, hoping I didn’t look as poleaxed as I felt. The dreamcatcher had caught my eye as I’d followed Victoria around the shop, the sight of it actually pulling my attention away from her for a while. It had taken a lot of willpower not to run my fingers over it. Alas, the shop really wasn’t the kind of place that looked kindly on people touching the merchandise.  
  
“You weren’t subtle,” Dean said, smiling slightly. “It was pretty obvious that you liked it.”  
  
I supposed I had stared at it for a while. I’d even briefly thought about getting it. Victoria had suggested I should get some ornaments and knick-knacks as well as the bare necessities of furniture. But one look at the price tag had convinced me that I couldn’t justify the expense. Especially for something I didn’t actually need.  
  
I reached out to touch the dreamcatcher, then hesitated, looking at Dean.  
  
“It’s too much, though,” I said, my skin prickling with awkwardness. “I remember how much this cost. It’s lovely, it really is, but it’s too much.”  
  
I couldn’t accept it. I already owed him more than I thought I could repay. This was excessive. But I’d probably phrased it badly or something. Certainly, the others seemed to be looking pretty awkward right now. Well, except Dennis, who was just shaking his head at me in a vaguely pitying kind of way.  
  
“It really isn’t,” Dean said, his smile turning wry. “Trust me. It won’t even make a dent in my allowance.”  
  
Victoria had said something similar when I’d protested about the clothes and accessories she got for me, as a gift. But then, I’d been too discombobulated to really put up more than a token protest. My head was clearer now. It felt weird getting gifts at all, but this was a little more than a vase or a pair of sparring gloves.  
  
“His family’s loaded,” Dennis mock-whispered. “Seriously. What’s the point of having a rich friend if not for the snazzy gifts they can get you?”  
  
“It’s so nice to feel appreciated,” Dean said dryly, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Oh, you know I love you, man,” Dennis drawled, grinning back at him. I tried not to let my eyes pop wide at the fact that he would say something like that so casually. Wasn’t he worried that someone would get the wrong idea? Although everyone here was probably all used to his weird sense of humour by now. (And I didn’t think any of them were likely to hurt him, or worse, over such a misunderstanding.)  
  
Ignoring Dennis’ ridiculousness, Dean turned his attention back to me.  
  
“It’s not that big a thing, honestly,” he told me. “And I know you like it.” He grinned. “Anyway, I didn’t keep the receipt, and it’s not really my kind of thing. So… please accept it?”  
  
A distrustful voice in the back of my mind whispered that it was some kind of trick to make me feel even more indebted to him than I already did. Another part of me wanted to grab hold of it before he could change his mind and take it away again.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, eventually, hoping that the moment of my indecision hadn’t stretched too long. “It’s very thoughtful of you.” I ran my hand lightly over the carved and dyed wood, the threads, the sea glass, not even having to work at bringing a smile to my lips. It really was lovely. (And maybe it would help stop the nightmares that had been plaguing me. But that was just wishful thinking.)  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dean said.  
  
I closed the lid of the box and set it carefully aside, reaching for the last present. I almost dreaded to think what Dennis might have gotten me. The wrapping paper was certainly very… pink. I eyed him askance at that, but he merely blinked innocently at me.  
  
“I don’t know how you have the patience to do that,” Chris said, shaking his head, as I carefully lifted off the tape and added it to the polymer ball before unwrapping the paper. “I would have started ripping them open ages ago.”  
  
I couldn’t deny that part of me was tempted to do just that. Well, I would probably have disintegrated the paper, but the principle was the same. But it was wasteful. And, anyway, just because I wanted to do something, that didn’t mean I was going to let myself do it. Control was important.  
  
“Patience is a virtue, Chris,” Missy said, piously.  
  
“Exactly,” I said, smiling at her. She didn’t smile back, but her eyes glittered with amusement as she nodded at me.  
  
Despite my not unreasonable concern, Dennis’ present did not turn out to be something blush-inducing and inappropriate. Instead, it was a book. Specifically, a recipe book.  
  
“An Atlas of Recipes,” I read from the front cover. Recipes from all over the world. A whole slew of different cooking techniques and cuisines, some of which I’d never even heard of before. “Thanks, Dennis,” I said, meaning it sincerely. “This is great.”  
  
“I thought you’d like it,” he said, preening a little. “And, like I said before, if you ever need a taste-tester for your culinary experiments, then I selflessly and nobly volunteer my services.”  
  
“So that’s your ulterior motive,” I said, grinning. “You just want free food.”  
  
“Guilty as charged,” he agreed cheerfully. “But you like to cook, and I like to eat, so as far as I’m concerned it’s a win-win.”  
  
“Speaking of food,” Carlos interjected. “Now that we’ve done the presents thing, how about that cake?”  
  
“Yes, please!” I blurted out, and then flushed with embarrassment. “It looks really good,” I muttered, putting the recipe book down.  
  
There was scattered laughter from some of the others, Carlos among them, but it didn’t really feel… malicious. More like they were laughing with me, than laughing at me.  
  
It helped when Dennis said: “Hear, hear,” with apparent sincerity.  
  
“Alright, then,” Carlos said, and there was a mass migration over to the cake table. Carlos took up the cake server and set about cutting a generous slice of cake. “My I present Emilio’s best bizcocho de zanahoria, or carrot cake. It’s his own recipe.” He put it on a paper plate with a napkin and a plastic fork and handed it to me.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, wondering if it was okay to just start eating, or if I should wait until everyone had a piece.  
  
“Go ahead, Astrid,” Carlos said, neatly solving that dilemma for me. “You’re the guest of honour. You don’t need to wait.”  
  
Not needing to be told twice, I dug in.  
  
Oh my God.  
  
That was fucking amazing. The sweetness of vanilla and cream cheese frosting contrasted perfectly with the tartness of ginger and the spice of cinnamon and nutmeg. And the texture was just perfect; moist and yielding with the crunch of walnuts here and there. Wow.  
  
“Fuck. Me,” I breathed, when my mouth was once more bereft of awesome cake. “That’s incredible.” Not wanting to wait a moment longer, I immediately scooped up another forkful. Maybe that one was a little larger than was strictly polite, but I was already expending a not-inconsiderable amount of willpower on not simply burying my face in the thing, so fuck it.  
  
“I’ll tell Emilio you liked it,” Carlos said, and I didn’t even care about the fact that he was clearly struggling not to laugh. Nor about the fact that the others were giving me looks that ranged from amused (Dean, Dennis) to the just plain odd (Chris, Missy). Embarrassment could wait. For now, there was cake.  
  
“Well, with that ringing endorsement, I’ll take two slices,” Dennis said.  
  
“You get one,” Carlos said, rolling his eyes as he served it up. “If you still want another one after you’ve finished that, you can get it yourself.”  
  
“The cake’s certainly big enough,” Dean muttered, sounding amused. “Was Emilio expecting the whole Protectorate to be here as well?”  
  
I was glad they weren’t. This party would have been a fuck of a lot more stressful if I’d also been meeting Protectorate capes for the first time. And the whole post-evaluation heart-to-heart thing would have been much more fraught if I’d had to worry about what someone like Miss Militia or Armsmaster thought of me.  
  
“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them showed up at some point if they hear that you brought in one of your brother’s famous cakes,” Chris said.  
  
I tried to tell myself that it was entirely ridiculous of me to get my hackles up at the thought of other people coming in here and helping themselves to the cake. Completely and utterly ridiculous. Despite what my power kept trying to tell me, the Wards HQ wasn’t mine. I was just living here. Plus, the cake technically belonged to Carlos. And it was clearly meant to share.  
  
Luckily, focusing on the the cake’s deliciousness made it easier for me to simmer the fuck down and push those stupid feelings aside.  
  
“Oh, speaking of the Protectorate,” Carlos said, looking towards me. “Triumph was thinking of stopping in tomorrow to introduce himself. Is that okay with you?”  
  
“Uh, sure,” I said, hoping my eyes weren’t quite as wide as they felt. I wasn’t nervous, I was just… It was a big thing, meeting one of the Protectorate. Even one who’d — according to the others — only recently graduated from the Wards. It was probably better than starting right at the top, but still. It was a thing. “Although I have my combat assessment scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”  
  
Yet another item that had simply popped up on my calendar. I guessed that was a useful feature, although I wondered what would happen if two people tried to schedule appointments with me at the same time. Especially if I wasn’t sure what their relative statuses were. Hopefully there was a procedure for that kind of thing. (Hopefully I wouldn’t end up pissing off the wrong person.) But there was no point in worrying about that until and unless it happened.  
  
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Carlos assured me. “He was going to stop by later in the afternoon.”  
  
“Thanks for the heads up,” Dennis told me. “I’ll bring popcorn.”  
  
I rolled my eyes at him, but forbore to comment, choosing to focus on the cake, savouring the next bite.  
  
“This is seriously good,” I murmured, sighing in satisfaction.  
  
“I’m glad you like it,” Carlos said, smiling, and I didn’t even have to make myself smile back at him. Apparently my mouth was doing that of its own accord.  
  
“So, what’s the verdict?” Chris asked, apropos of nothing.  
  
I gave him a puzzled look. “On the cake?”  
  
“I think you made your feelings on that perfectly clear,” Dennis put in, smirking. I glared at him, trying not to blush. His amusement didn’t appear to diminish in the slightest.  
  
“I meant the party,” Chris explained, elbowing Dennis in the side. “What do you think about it, overall?”  
  
No pressure, I thought but didn’t say, painfully aware that the whole team seemed to be interested in my answer.  
  
I considered the question. Parts of the experience had been stressful, awkward, and even downright painful, but on balance…  
  
I felt my smile widen until it must surely have lit up my whole face.  
  
(I didn’t care how hard I’d have to work to make up the lost time.)  
  
(It was totally worth it.)  
  
“Pretty fucking awesome.”


	37. Aphenphosmphobia 3.10

I paused just inside the canteen, scanning for familiar faces. Well, one familiar face. Unfortunately, Seraph was nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t entirely surprised — it had been something of a long shot. Still, I was here now, so I might as well ask around. The place was nowhere near as crowded as it had been the morning after Viking and those other nazi fuckers hit Coil’s turf, but there were a few PRT officers around. They weren’t exactly hard to identify.  
  
I took a breath, drew myself up and approached the nearest table.  
  
“Excuse me,” I said, striving for a confidence I didn’t really feel. The three men sitting there broke off their conversation and looked at me with expressions ranging from curiosity to hostility. At least, it looked like hostility to me, but I had just barged in on their dinner. God knew I might have been a little peeved if some stranger had tried to talk to me while I was eating. “Sorry to interrupt,” I continued, “but do you happen to know if anyone from Gimel squad is around at the moment?”  
  
“Why do you want to know?” snapped the one I’d pegged as being openly hostile, his sharp-edged question lending credence to my initial assessment.  
  
“I was hoping to speak to them,” I replied calmly, doing my level best not to bristle at his attitude. It didn’t help that, being tall, dark-haired and built like a brick shithouse, he reminded me a little of Lance.  
  
“So, you’re the new Ward,” one of the others said, looking me up and down appraisingly. He was smaller than the first guy; wiry and tough-looking, like he was chiseled out of granite.  
  
“That’s right,” I said. Not exactly a difficult thing for him to deduce, given my mask and costume.  
  
“Big for a girl,” he noted.  
  
“‘So I’ve been told.” My words emerged somewhat flatter than I’d intended, and I could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that my tone hadn’t gone unnoticed.  
  
I tried to think calming thoughts. I supposed it had been too much to hope that all the troops would be as friendly as Seraph, Murphy and most of the other PRT employees of various stripes that I’d been introduced to so far. Or who’d introduced themselves to me. Somewhat dismally, I wondered how long it would take me to learn the unofficial hierarchy around here. Fuck, I still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure about the official chain of command. I was hoping I’d at least have that nailed down before having to worry too much about the unofficial pecking order.  
  
There was a definite downside to being part of such a large organisation. Figuring out my place was much more of a challenge.  
  
“What do you want to talk to Gimel squad about?” Mr Rude practically demanded to know, his voice hard and his lip curling like he’d just smelled something unpleasant.  
  
I bit back my instinctive response, which was that it was none of his fucking business, and made myself take a breath before responding. If I couldn’t achieve actual calm, hopefully I could at least fake it.  
  
Hopefully.  
  
I resisted the urge to introduce a few strategic structural weaknesses into his chair. Satisfying as it would have been to send him crashing to the floor, destroying one of the canteen chairs in an act of petty spite would hardly be fair to the staff, or to the other patrons. Why should they be inconvenienced because of one flaming asshole? Besides, these people were trained to go up against capes. There was always the risk they’d figure out it was malice, rather than misfortune, and trace it back to me. And this fucker sure as shit was not worth a spell in the basement.  
  
Not yet, anyway.  
  
“Do you know if any of them are in at the moment?” I asked, completely ignoring Mr Rude’s question to address myself to his two companions.  
  
The one who’d said I was big continued to look at me in a narrow-eyed, judgemental way. In my mind, I christened him Squinty. The third man, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, had been looking around the canteen. Now he met my gaze and pointed towards a table.  
  
“Those guys are from Gimel,” he said. He didn’t smile, but his tone didn’t seem especially unfriendly. Not exactly friendly either, but neutrality was a distinct step up from Squinty and Mr Rude. I designated this one Cueball, for his shaved head.  
  
“Thank you,” I said politely. I probably should have just left it there, but some impulse made me smile tightly at the other two and add: “See you around. Gentlemen.”  
  
Possibly not entirely wise, but I didn’t really sound all that sarcastic. Well, not overly sarcastic. At least not so’s anyone could really call me on it.  
  
Fine, okay, whatever. I sounded pretty fucking sarcastic. But at least I was using my goddamn words.  
  
One of the men muttered something under his breath in a venomous tone as I turned and strode away. I thought it was Mr Rude, but I couldn’t have sworn to it. My steps faltered for a moment, and I almost, almost turned back and demanded to know if he’d said what I’d thought he’d said, but then common sense asserted itself. This wasn’t the time and it wasn’t the place. One way or another, starting something here would not end well for me. Anyway, I wasn’t entirely certain what I’d heard, so it was best just to leave it for the time being.  
  
Probably.  
  
But I wasn’t going to forget it.  
  
And if that rude-ass motherfucker really had called me a fucking freak, one of these days we were going to have **words**.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I tried to ignore the sudden, stupid attack of butterflies in my stomach as I approached the table Cueball had indicated. That brief, irritating encounter had made me question the wisdom of this course of action. What if Murphy’s squad-mates took this badly? What if they were insulted, or pissed off? (What if I said the wrong thing and fucked this up?) Still, there was no point in worrying about that now. I was here, and I was going through with this. Anyway, even if I had been inclined to chicken out — which I wasn’t — I sure as shit wasn’t going to do so in front of Mr Rude, Squinty and Cueball. No fucking way.  
  
Best just to stop second-guessing myself (third-guessing, fourth-guessing; whatever) and get the fuck on with it.  
  
There were three people at the table; two men and one woman.  Given the time, they were almost certainly technically off-duty by now, but with one of their own down I wasn’t surprised they were still on site. I was willing to bet that Seraph was still around somewhere, too. Maybe she was with Murphy.  
  
I took a slow, deep, calming breath as I approached, pushing away the sour aftertaste of the last conversation. Ignoring the sensation of déjà vu, I opened my mouth to speak.  
  
“Excuse me.” I’d made an effort to keep my tone light, but then I started fretting that maybe I sounded too cheerful. Under the circumstances, maybe I should have aimed for a touch more gravitas. I made myself stop second-guessing myself (more or less), pushing through the awkwardness so I could get out the rest of my words with a minimum of stammering. (Ideally, none at all.) “I’m sorry to disturb you, but are you from Gimel squad?”  
  
I wasn’t a hundred per cent certain, but I fancied their regard was more curious than hostile. I hoped so, anyway.  
  
“That’s us,” drawled one of the men. He was huge and black, his skin darker than Sophia’s by several shades; a stark contrast with the white dressings taped across his left cheek, and the side of his forehead. (I felt a scalding rush of shame as I realised I’d tensed instinctively under his regard, and I made myself stand down. I hoped no one had noticed.) His left eye also looked a little bruised and bloodshot. “Shutterbug.” He nodded at the woman, who raised a hand in greeting, barely lifting her eyes from her phone to glance in my direction with a distracted-seeming smile. She had black hair and I thought she was probably shorter than me, although it might just have been the contrast with the speaker that made her look small. I just could make out the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under her left sleeve. “Boomer.” A wave of the hand indicated a squirrelly little blond man with visible bruises and scrapes, none of which were apparently serious enough to need dressings. Boomer studied me with unabashed interest as he shifted in his seat, although his nod of greeting seemed friendly enough. “And I’m FrouFrou.”  
  
“FrouFrou?” I echoed, my eyebrows climbing skywards of their own volition. Now that he mentioned it, I recognised his voice from the comms. The moniker just seemed even more incongruous now that I’d actually seen him. “That has to be one of Seraph’s nicknames,” I found myself adding.  
  
I sure as shit couldn’t imagine someone like him picking a name like that for himself. Frankly, I was shocked he’d actually chosen to introduce himself by it. Unless he’d figured his squad-mates would just correct him anyway and had decided to just own it. In any event, I had to admire his courage. Still, given the way he was built, I doubted he really had to worry about someone trying to make something of it.  
  
(And, being a black guy in Brockton fucking Bay, maybe he’d just figured the people inclined to start shit with him over the name would already be doing so over the colour of his skin.)  
  
“It’s on account of how I’m so fancy,” FrouFrou said, in a completely deadpan tone. I wasn’t entirely sure what my face was doing right now, but if I looked half as discombobulated as I felt, it must have been a sight to see. From the way FrouFrou’s eyes sparkled and his lips quirked into a lopsided grin, I’d be willing to bet it was pretty fucking humorous. “And what should we call you?”  
  
“Astrid is fine,” I said, making an effort to get my expression under control and not to bristle at his clear mirth. It helped that the amusement didn’t seem mean-spirited. At least, I didn’t think it was. Anyway, I doubted I was the first person to react with confusion upon hearing his name, and I probably wouldn’t be the last. On the subject of names, a sudden burst of self-consciousness made me add: “I don’t have a cape name yet.”  
  
“So you’re just using your real one?” Boomer asked, raising his eyebrows. “Aren’t you bothered about identity protection?”  
  
I suppressed a twitch at the reminder of my stupidity. What the fuck had I been thinking, giving my actual name when I first met Gallant? And again, not giving Captain Cavendish an alias when I first came to the PRT. It was just a first name, and I doubted I was the only Astrid in Brockton Bay, but still. Pretty fucking careless of me. If Dad knew how stupid I’d been, he would’ve beaten me bloody. Bloodier.  
  
I wouldn’t have blamed him in the slightest.  
  
But the damage was done now. Although… Maybe I could do a little damage control to stop this getting too out of hand. It might have been somewhat belated, but it had to be better than none at all.  
  
“Why would you assume it’s my real name?” I asked carelessly, making myself grin as I met Boomer’s gaze. “I’d have to be pretty fucking stupid to throw that around like it was nothing.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Boomer murmured, smiling faintly. Did he believe me? I wasn’t sure. Justifications and arguments started to cluster behind my teeth, but I held them back. Overselling a lie was a surefire way to make people doubt you. Less was more, and all that. Best to just seem like I wasn’t that concerned about whether they believed me or not.  
  
“So, Astrid,” FrouFrou said, giving me a curious look. “What can we do for you?”  
  
Oh. Right. I had a reason for seeking them out. And, just like that, something snapped into focus in my mind; a feeling that had been bubbling below the surface ever since I’d set foot in the canteen. Not quite nostalgia, but there was something of that about it. A sensation almost like déjà vu. (Almost like home.) It had been squashed down by the irritation of dealing with Squinty and Mr Rude, but here it was, bouncing right back.  
  
Although, honestly, the particular flavour of irritation those assholes had caused me was also, in its own strange way, pretty fucking nostalgic.  
  
Cudgelling my brain into gear, I took a breath and marshalled my thoughts into something approaching order.  
  
“Captain Cavendish let me listen in on your mission this morning,” I began. I watched the three of them carefully for any signs of annoyance at finding out they’d had an eavesdropper, but there was nothing obvious that I could see. “And I wanted to see how Murphy was doing. Were his ribs actually broken in the end?”  
  
“Yeah,” FrouFrou said, apparently happy to continue as squad spokesman in Seraph’s absence. He shook his head. “Cracked, at least. And he has a concussion.”  
  
“But aside from that, and being half-deaf, and the miscellaneous bumps and bruises, he’s doing fine,” Boomer put in dryly.”  
  
“Typical Jinx,” Shutterbug murmured. I guessed she actually was paying attention to the conversation after all. Unlike the other two, she didn’t seem to have have any visible damage, but maybe she’d been maintaining overwatch or something.  
  
“I’m sorry he got hurt,” I said sympathetically, resisting the urge to press a hand to my own ribs. “And concussions suck ass.” Not that cracked ribs were fun and games, but at least they didn’t make the world flicker and strobe around you; focus slipping through your fingers like sand, reality ebbing and flowing like a vomit-flavoured tide. No, a concussion was not fun at all. “I hope he gets better soon.”  
  
FrouFrou nodded, his teeth showing white as he smiled at me. “I’ll pass that on when I see him.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, relieved that I didn’t seem to be fucking this up too badly so far. “Is he in the infirmary at the moment?”  
  
“Yeah, they’re keeping him for observation,” Boomer said.  
  
Made sense for a concussion. You did not fuck around with head injuries. Even Dad considered that kind of damage worth a trip to a doctor. Admittedly, the kind of doctor who didn’t necessarily have all their licenses and paperwork in order. (The kind of doctor who wouldn’t go bleating to the so-called authorities because they didn’t understand training or discipline.) Then again, it wasn’t like we ever saw any other kind of doctor. Not by choice, anyway.  
  
(I remembered a teacher some years and several homes ago who’d got a hair up her ass about the fact that I’d come to school with a couple of bruises. Despite me telling her repeatedly that it wasn’t as bad as it looked, and it really wasn’t anything to worry about, she’d all-but dragged me to see the school nurse. And I’d kind of… panicked. I’d insisted I needed the bathroom, and then the instant they let me out of their sight, I managed to slip away.)  
  
(The teacher had obviously suspected I might do a runner, because she stood guard outside the door, but she hadn’t reckoned on me being willing and able to wriggle out through a window.)  
  
(Fucking amateur.)  
  
(Once I’d made a break for it… I couldn’t lie: there’d been a part of me that had been tempted to just keep going. To just run as far and as fast as I could and hope to God and the devil that it would be enough. But I hadn’t. I’d just trotted along home like a good girl and explained my fuck up to Dad.)  
  
(Regrets: I’d had a few.)  
  
(Dad had already been planning on moving us on in the not too distant future, but he’d expedited that process somewhat. Lance had been pissed off no end, whining and carrying on because he hadn’t gotten to say a proper goodbye to his precious fucking friends.)  
  
(Shit. If that busybody of a teacher had seen me after the pair of them had finished explaining their displeasure to me, she’d have thrown even more of a shitfit. Fucking nosy bitch. She should’ve minded her own goddamned business instead of getting her knickers in a twist about stuff she didn’t fucking understand.)  
  
“We’re hoping to be able to see him before we leave for the day,” FrouFrou said, his voice thankfully pulling my focus away from memory lane and back to the here and now.  
  
(I hoped it hadn’t been too obvious that I’d been drifting, a little.)  
  
(Christ, I was tired.)  
  
“Could you please take this to him?” I asked, trying vainly to fight off the exhaustion pressing down on me as I  pulled a tupperware container out of my bag and set it down on the table. “I mean, he probably won’t feel like eating just yet, but it should keep just fine for a day or two as long as the lid stays sealed.” And… now I was babbling. Fucking great. I made myself stop and take a breath. “It’s cake,” I said, belatedly. “Carrot cake, to be precise. It’s from all of us. The Wards, I mean. They all send their well-wishes too.”  
  
I should probably have led with that, shouldn’t I? I mean, it had been my idea, to bring the cake. I’d asked Carlos if I could give some to Murphy, which had necessitated explaining why. (I hoped I hadn’t broken any rules by telling him what had happened. I hoped Captain Cavendish wouldn’t be angry with me for briefing my team leader on what I’d learned. Maybe I should have checked first, but Carlos had been right there, and he was my immediate superior, so… I really hoped I hadn’t made the wrong call.)  
  
“Did Aegis bring that in?” Shutterbug asked, sitting up a little in her chair and actually tearing her gaze away from her phone so she could peer interestedly at the box of deliciousness.  
  
“Yes,” I said, a little amused. Apparently Chris hadn’t been exaggerating the likely response when word got out that one of Emilio’s cakes was on the premises.  
  
(It seemed a little weird that Carlos would freely give out his siblings’ names as easily as he had done. We were teammates, but he barely knew me. There was a reason I hadn’t mentioned Lance’s name to anyone who didn’t need to know. Or who didn’t already know. It was a significant level of trust for Carlos to show someone he’d only just met, even a subordinate.)  
  
(I just hoped I never had to use it against him.)  
  
“You know,” Boomer said, with an air of concern that was only slightly spoiled by the covetous gleam in his eye. “A rich cake might be a little much for an invalid. Maybe someone should, ah, test it first. Just to make sure.”  
  
“I’ll make sure this gets to Jinx, don’t worry,” FrouFrou assured me, patting the box with what seemed like a proprietary air. Smirking a little, he added. “Minus my courier’s fee.”  
  
I was a little surprised to find myself smiling back at him.  
  
“There should actually be enough for the whole squad in there,” I told them. There’d certainly been enough of it left after the party. Even Dennis, for all his bold talk, hadn’t actually been able to manage a second slice. I certainly couldn’t. (Not that I would’ve actually let myself. A third mini-quiche was one thing. A second slice of cake really would’ve been a step too far. Although I couldn’t deny that I’d been tempted.) Sternly, I added: “Just as long as J-, ah, Murphy gets a slice.”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” FrouFrou said dryly.  
  
I tensed briefly, searching his face for any sign of maliciousness underlying his blatant amusement, but there was nothing there. (Or he was good at hiding it.) I hitched my smile back up and made myself stand down. (I guessed there was one benefit to spending time around Dennis — I was certainly getting a lots of practice at not flipping my shit over being mocked or laughed at.)  
  
“Good,” I said. “I’d appreciate it if you could make sure the container gets back to the Wards HQ when you’re done with it, though.”  
  
FrouFrou nodded. “Will do.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “You heading out?”  
  
“I figured I’ve interrupted your dinner long enough,” I said. They’d certainly been a lot more welcoming than the table of asshats, but that didn’t mean they wanted me to hang around, taking up their time.  
  
“Stay if you want,” Boomer said. “Aren’t you going to get your own dinner? Feel free to bring it over and pull up a pew.”  
  
“I don’t think I’m going to be eating anything else for a little while,” I said, pulling a face. “There was a fucktonne of party food to go with that cake, and I ate a fuck of a lot of it. I’m completely stuffed.”  
  
Uneasiness shivered along my nerves and sparked a small bloom of heat in my cheeks at the thought of how shamefully I’d indulged myself. For some reason, an image of Dennis shaking his head in that almost pitying way of his flashed into my mind, and the embarrassment curdled into something sharp and acrid. Where the fuck did he get off, judging me? Just because I, unlike him, didn’t heedlessly indulge my every whim and desire without care, control or consequences… But there was no mileage in getting worked up about that now. Anyway, much though I hated to admit it, he’d actually had a something of a point in this instance. It had been a party in my honour, after all. It would have been rude not to indulge a least a little.  
  
The last thing I would’ve wanted was to seem ungrateful.  
  
I was almost startled to realise all over again how much I’d enjoyed myself in the end. It wasn’t just the food, good as that had been — especially the fucking awesome cake. It had been… nice, just hanging out with my… my team. Playing stupid but surprisingly fun party games. Talking. (And if I thought too much about them singing me Happy Birthday and giving me presents, there were going to be fucking **feelings** again, so I’d better nip that shit in the bud right fucking now. This was neither the time nor the place for indulging in sentiment.)  
  
“You could join us anyway,” Shutterbug said. Her lips twitched upwards in a brief smile. “I’m kind of curious to know what you made of this morning’s op.”  
  
I could understand that. And, despite all the work I’d failed to do because of the party — work I should really be getting on with now — I actually was tempted to stay a little while. Maybe they’d be willing to answer some of my own questions. And, earlier apprehensions and foot-in-mouth syndrome aside, this whole situation — shooting the shit with a bunch of soldiers fresh off a mission — really did feel kind of… familiar.  
  
(It was probably weak of me, but I thought I maybe wanted something familiar.)  
  
Anyway, PRT officers often supported cape operations, so I might well end up in the field with Gimel squad at some point. Getting to know the people you might someday depend on to watch your back was only common sense.  
  
(At least I wouldn’t have to play medic or getaway driver for this lot, though. And, even better, there was a much lower chance of them turning out to be fucking nazis.)  
  
“I could definitely go for a coffee,” I mused, because Jesus fucking Christ I was tired all of a sudden. I seriously needed to get my sleeping patterns sorted out. Coffee and willpower could take me pretty damn far, but I’d reach my limit sooner or later. Shunting away that ominous train of thought for now, I raised my eyebrows enquiringly as I added: “Any of you want anything while I’m going?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“How much do I owe you?” Shutterbug asked as I set her chai latte carefully down in front of her.  
  
“Surprised you don’t know that already,” FrouFrou said dryly. (That nickname still seemed weird as fuck. The fact that he accepted it, even more so.) “You order it often enough.”  
  
“More important things to remember,” she replied dismissively, and then turned her attention back to me. “So, how much?”  
  
“Nothing,” I said, settling down with my extra large black coffee.  
  
“Generous of you,” Boomer observed.  
  
“Not really,” I said, a little uncomfortable about the misapprehension. “It didn’t cost me anything.”  
  
“Why not?” Shutterbug asked, curiously.  
  
I shrugged, hoping I didn’t look anywhere near as ill at ease as I felt. “They don’t charge me in here.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Boomer said, indignation colouring his words as he sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Is that a Wards thing? How is that fair? We PRT grunts don’t get free stuff. I’m going to complain.”  
  
Oh God. What had I just done?  
  
“It’s not a Wards thing,” I muttered, feeling all kinds of awkward right now. “It’s just me.” I dithered for a moment and then pressed onwards, figuring I might as well get this over with. “And it’s because I’m kind of… living here. Temporarily.”  
  
I half-wished I could take the words back. But it wasn’t like I could’ve taken Shutterbug’s money, and I couldn’t let them think I’d just bought the drink for her with my own money. It wouldn’t have been right. I tried to console myself with the thought that enough people knew about my living situation that the particulars were bound to percolate through eventually. Anyway, as pieces of information went, it was hardly that dangerous a thing to let slip.  
  
(Plus, there was one very important lesson I’d learned about keeping secrets. If you made sure to blab something at least potentially compromising in some minor way every now and then, people didn’t necessarily bother to look for the worse stuff you were keeping shtum about. When you were as shit at lying as I was, there was merit in anything that stopped people prying into stuff you really couldn’t afford to let slip.)  
  
The three PRT soldiers looked at me, their faces painted various shades of surprise. In FrouFrou’s case, that surprise rapidly faded into inscrutability.  
  
“Here as in the PRT HQ?” Boomer asked cautiously.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, flatly. “The Wards HQ, to be precise.”  
  
There was another moment of silence. I drank my coffee and tried not to hunch into my seat, wondering if there would be questions. (If there would be pity). Fuck, I hoped not.  
  
“Well,” Shutterbug said after a moment, her tone light. “I guess that explains why you were around to listen in on the op this morning.”  
  
The tension in my neck and between my shoulder blades eased just a little.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, again, more softly this time.  
  
“I hope Cav didn’t drag you out of bed for it,” Boomer said, grinning at me.  
  
Relief made me grin back.  
  
“No, I was already up and about,” I assured him. “I actually needed to see Captain Cavendish about something, so I was in his office when Dispatch gave him the heads up.”  
  
“What did you need to talk to Cav about?” FrouFrou asked, studying me thoughtfully.  
  
“Just passing on a message,” I said, shrugging. And that was all the answer I was planning on giving to that particular question. Nick hadn’t asked me to talk to all and sundry about him, after all. If Seraph or Murphy wanted to discuss him with the rest of their squad, then that was up to them, not me. While we were asking questions, though… “So, with regards to the op,” I began cautiously, keeping my voice low in case of eavesdroppers. “Did the Merchants really recruit three more capes?”  
  
That was a pretty big fucking deal, if it was true. Less so if those capes were in custody now, but still. Although, if they really had been recruiting, they must have been keeping it quiet. And quiet was not a word normally associated with those degenerate poison-peddlers.  
  
A moment of silence followed my question, Boomer and Shutterbug flicking glances towards FrouFrou, who shook his head slowly.  
  
“Can’t tell you anything more than you heard from Cav, or over the comms, I’m afraid.” There was a note of regret in his voice, which seemed sincere enough. At least as far as I could tell. His answer was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected. I found my respect for his professionalism ticking up a notch.  
  
“Fair enough,” I said.  
  
“You’re not going to argue?” Boomer asked, sounding a little surprised.  
  
“Opsec is a thing,” I said dryly. “I get that.” Of course, the importance of sticking to protocol went double when the op in question was part of an ongoing campaign. Given that at least one person had got away — likely the person running the drug lab — the case wasn’t exactly over. “Just thought I’d ask on the off-chance,” I added.  
  
“On the off-chance that at least one of us couldn’t keep our mouth shut?” Shutterbug sounded amused, and Boomer looked faintly indignant, but it was FrouFrou’s reaction to my not-entirely-thought-out words I was most concerned about. He gave a low chuckle, though, easing most of my concern.  
  
“Something like that,” I told Shutterbug, my lopsided smile hopefully making it clear that I didn’t intend any real offence. I turned to study FrouFrou thoughtfully. “Are you the Gimel 2IC?”  
  
“Guilty as charged,” he said, his teeth showing stark white against the darkness of his skin as he smiled broadly. “How’d you know?”  
  
“Lucky guess,” I said, pleased that I hadn’t managed to lose all of my ability to read people. Or to figure out a chain of fucking command. “So,” I continued, holding his gaze. “Is there anything you **can** tell me about this morning’s op?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“So, yeah,” Boomer said, sounding remarkably pleased with himself considering the context. “Now I get to say I lived through an actual self-destructing villain’s lair. Pretty sure that Swan’s going to go green with envy when I tell him.”  
  
“Dear Penthouse,” Shutterbug murmured slyly. “I never thought it would happen to me…”  
  
“Oh, shut it, you philistine,” Boomer replied loftily, drawing himself up to look down his nose at her. “You just don’t understand the beauty of a good bang.” On that note, his pretensions to dignity gave way completely, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.  
  
Shutterbug fixed him with a steely glare and flipped him the bird. She started to snap out a response, but FrouFrou cut her off.  
  
“Do I need to remind you two that there’s a minor present?”  
  
I snorted, shoving aside my instinctive flare of irritation at being reminded that these people saw me as a fucking **child**. “Don’t feel the need to censor yourselves on my account,” I drawled. “I heard worse than that when I was in grade school.”  
  
That was certainly true enough. I bet various members of Dad’s squad could even have made Dennis blush with their crude talk. Come to think of it, it was kind of weird that Dennis could actually fluster me so thoroughly with his sly little insinuations. And that I’d gotten so tilted when Victoria suggested I work my way through a few ‘Mr Right Now’s.’ I mean, I really had heard much, much worse than that in my time. It just didn’t make sense.  
  
Case in point: there wasn’t even a hint of warmth in my cheeks at the banter between Shutterbug and Boomer. I just found it amusing.  
  
I guessed it made a difference when that kind of thing was actually directed at me, rather than at other people.  
  
(Anyway, if I was honest about it, even the very lewdest of Dennis’ remarks was far less objectionable than anything I’d overhead Dad’s men say. It really was no contest.)  
  
“Rough school?” Boomer asked, raising his eyebrows.  
  
“Spent a lot of time around soldiers growing up,” I said. “My dad was one of them.”  
  
Technically correct: the best kind of correct.  
  
“That explains a few things,” FrouFrou murmured, as if to himself.  
  
“Where did your father serve?” Boomer asked, sounding interested.  
  
I froze.  
  
“I can’t tell you that,” I said stiffly, trying not to panic.  
  
“Identity protection, dumbass,” Shutterbug said, poking Boomer in the side. “You brought it up yourself, earlier. Remember?”  
  
I silently thanked Shutterbug, battening onto the excuse like a leech.  
  
“Sorry,” I said, managing to scrounge up a rueful grin from somewhere.  
  
“No, I’m sorry,” Boomer said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”  
  
In the brief lull that followed his words, my thoughts drifted back to the subject that had led us to this little tangent.  
  
“It must have been a pretty piss-poor self-destruct mechanism,” I mused. “I mean, it didn’t actually destroy the whole building. And all of you survived it.”  
  
“You should’ve seen the poor bastards that didn’t,” Boomer muttered darkly, making my ears prick up.  
  
“Boomer,” FrouFrou said quietly, but with a note of clear reproach.  
  
“Sorry,” Boomer muttered.  
  
Hellfire and damnation! Now I really did want to know more. I was half-tempted to ask again, but I resisted the urge.  
  
“Well, I’m glad you all survived it,” I said instead. “And I hope Murphy recovers quickly.”  
  
“Most people call him Jinx, you know,” Shutterbug observed.  
  
“So Seraph said,” I observed dryly. “But he said he prefers Murphy, so…”  
  
“Okay, you’re clearly too nice to hang around with the likes of us,” Boomer quipped, shaking his head.  
  
I snorted at that.  
  
“You wouldn’t say that if you really knew me,” I said, with a bitter-edged kind of amusement. There were a number of words that could be used to describe me, but I sincerely doubted that ‘nice’ was among them. Not to anyone other than Chris, anyway, and the less said about his judgement the better. But I made an effort to lighten my tone a little when I continued; to focus on the amusement, rather than the bitterness. “Murphy just hasn’t pissed me off enough to want to wind him up.”  
  
“Jinx doesn’t tend to piss people off all that much,” FrouFrou observed.  
  
“He’s also too nice to hang around with the rest of us, really,” Shutterbug added.  
  
“Although it can be mightily irritating when the rest of us run afoul of his fucking luck,” muttered Boomer, shaking his head.  
  
“It can’t be that bad, can it?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.  
  
“Oh, it can,” Boomer assured me. “Let me tell you a story…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“And Seraph, calm as you please, just looked at the motherfucker in the tinfoil mask and said: ‘Sir, I think you might be colour-blind. What we’re standing in isn’t exactly a ‘blood-dimmed’ tide.” As he finished speaking, Boomer dissolved into laughter.  
  
I couldn’t help joining in.  
  
“Worst thing was, in the end they just turned out to be common or garden nut jobs,” Shutterbug added absently, most of her attention apparently on her phone again, “rather than the kind with powers.” She twitched briefly, and looked at me with a slight, rueful smile. “Uh, no offence.”  
  
“None taken,” I replied, amused. “I know parahumans in general aren’t exactly bastions of stability and mental health.” Some of the stories Dad had told me, and some of the stuff I’d found out for myself when I dug into it… Well. It painted kind of an ugly picture. A chill went through me as I wondered if my power would twist **me** over time; if maybe it had already started. Would I even notice? Would it feel alien, or unnatural? Or would it just feel like… me? Fucked if I knew. No point in worrying about it right now, though. Although this turn in the conversation did remind me there was something I’d been wanting to ask. After a quick glance around, I leaned in a little, lowering my voice. “On an unrelated note,” I said, somewhat dishonestly, “the three guys at the table to my two o’ clock: can any of you tell me who pissed in their cornflakes?”  
  
FrouFrou and Boomer surreptitiously cast their gazes towards the table of asshats. Shutterbug just held up her phone at an angle, presumably using its camera to look behind her.  
  
“Bet squad,” she murmured.  
  
“What’s left of them, anyway,” Boomer added, his voice so soft that I had to strain my ears to make out the words.  
  
My stomach dropped through the floor.  
  
Oh. Oh, fuck.  
  
No wonder they’d been a little salty. I’d been intruding on much more than just their dinner. Honestly, I was surprised they hadn’t just told me fuckity-bye the instant I approached them.  
  
FrouFrou gave Boomer a quelling look, and then focused on me. He seemed thoughtful, rather than angry, but the sting of shame still made me want to shrink under his regard. I fought the urge, making myself hold his gaze.  
  
“You talked to them?” he asked quietly.  
  
I nodded. “I asked them if anyone from Gimel squad was around,” I replied, keeping my own voice low.  
  
“Let me guess,” Boomer said. “They were a little… impolite.”  
  
I shrugged uncomfortably, regretting the fact that I’d brought the subject up at all. Dammit! I should have realised. Somehow. I should have recognised that they’d suffered losses.  
  
“I didn’t know what I was walking in on,” I temporised. “And they did point me in your direction.” Well, one of them had.  
  
Technically correct, again.  
  
FrouFrou sighed softly.  
  
“I can’t tell you details,” he said. “But, to give you some context, they were called in to support a Protectorate intervention in one of last week’s skirmishes between E88 and the Merchants. Things ended up…” He hesitated a moment. “Let’s just say that the situation evolved rapidly, necessitating an ad hoc adjustment of tactics and redeployment of resources.”  
  
“Is that the technical term for: shit went sideways, fast?” I asked.  
  
“You said it, not me.” His lips twitched in a brief smile, but then his expression sobered again. “Anyway, Bet got hammered hard and, well…”  
  
“They’re angry,” I filled in. “And they want to blame someone.” I frowned, trying to think of the best way to phrase the question. “Should they? Aside from the druggies and the fucking nazis, I mean.”  
  
Was the Protectorate at fault? Had I just been the recipient of spillover from some kind of blue on blue action?  
  
“Investigation’s ongoing,” FrouFrou said, his implacable demeanour telling me I’d get no more out of him on that front.  
  
“Understood,” I said; an acknowledgement of both the spoken and the unspoken messages.  
  
“If it’s any consolation,” Shutterbug said, her eyes soft with what seemed like sympathy. “Any… impoliteness on their part probably wasn’t personal. They’re just not happy with capes in general right now. Unfortunately, that includes blue ones.”  
  
“Not that some of them ever were,” Boomer added, sotto voce, earning himself another poke from Shutterbug and a disapproving look from FrouFrou. “What?” he asked, sounding a little aggrieved. “It’s true, isn’t it?”  
  
That was… interesting. Not exactly surprising, though. I mean: some of the people choosing to pursue a career in the federal organisation that deals with parahumans might have issues with parahumans in general? Whoop-de-fucking-do. Who could’ve seen that coming? I didn’t even blame them for it, not really. I mean, capes could be fucking scary. But it was worth looking into. Carefully.  
  
I made a mental note to sound out the other Wards on the subject of their interactions with the PRT.  
  
After all, regardless of whether or not their grievances were valid, it was always good to know who the assholes were.  
  
“Maybe give Bet squad a bit of a wide berth for the time being,” FrouFrou told me.  
  
“Copy that,” I replied.  
  
So. What was a subtle way of asking my teammates which PRT personnel were thinking ‘fucking freaks’ whenever they looked at us?  
  
Fucked if I knew.


	38. Aphenphosmphobia 3.11

“If any of you cowards had actually been brave enough to take my bet, I could’ve made some serious bank,” Clockblocker complained from somewhere behind me, not entirely sotto voce.  
  
No one was in costume, technically;  we were all clad in workout gear. But there were non-Wards present — two PRT officers acting as combat training instructors — so it was masks and cape names all the way. Thanks to Clockblocker, my current nom de guerre was ‘New Girl.’ And I was pretty damn sure he’d only told them to call me that because he knew it irked me.  
  
Asshole.  
  
It was fine, though. Or, rather, it would be. I just had to figure out how I was going to get him back.  
  
“That was a sucker’s bet, and you know it,” Aegis replied, sounding amused. Movement in my peripheral vision alerted me to the fact that he was heading my way. I quickly finished stretching, relishing the pleasant, post-exertion warmth humming through my muscles.  
  
“Sir,” I greeted him, coming to attention as he reached me.  
  
I wasn’t sure whether or not it was just my imagination, but his smile seemed to dim a little, briefly, before he dialled it up again. (I hoped I hadn’t done something wrong.)  
  
“Well done,” he told me.  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I replied, standing a little straighter. I was a little surprised at how cheerful I sounded. On reflection, though, I was in a pretty good mood right now. The combat and fitness assessment had been a fun little workout, even if the instructor apparently believed in the ‘soft and gentle’ approach. But, whatever. That was obviously just the way they did things here. I could only hope that the advanced course would be a little more normal. I hesitated a moment, and then decided to indulge the spark of curiosity that Clockblocker’s words had kindled. “If you don’t mind me asking, what bet did Clockblocker want to make?”  
  
I watched Aegis carefully in case I’d overstepped by asking the question, but he just laughed. I relaxed fractionally.  
  
“He wanted to run a book on whether or not you’d be offered the option of advanced combat training,” he explained. His grin turned into a smirk as he added: “But, not being idiots, none of us were willing to bet against it.”  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said. A warm, pleased feeling spread through my chest at this confirmation that my teammates apparently didn’t think I was completely useless after all. (Even if it occasionally seemed like they did.) “That’s good to know.”  
  
“That we’re not idiots?” he asked.  
  
(‘Oh, so you think I’m blind as well as stupid. Is that what you’re saying, girl?’)  
  
I froze.  
  
“That’s not what I… I didn’t mean… I wouldn’t…” With a great effort of will, I made myself stop babbling and tamp down the mixture of horror and disgust at the way I’d apparently stuffed my big foot squarely into my stupid mouth. “I intended no disrespect, Sir,” I said carefully.  
  
Aegis frowned, and I thought for sure I’d really done it this time. He started to raise his hand and I flinched before I could stop myself. A scalding rush of embarrassment felt like it must surely be setting my cheeks ablaze. My face burned even more when I realised he was merely adjusting his ponytail. (It actually looked like he’d been about to run his fingers through his hair, only belatedly realising that he’d tied it back for the training session. But I certainly wasn’t going to mention that.)  
  
“It was a joke,” he said softly, the most peculiar expression on his face. “I know that’s not what you meant. You’re always so… polite. To me, anyway. But, even if you had meant that, I wouldn’t have been offended. I mean, you’ve heard the way the others talk to me, right?”  
  
Well, this was fucking awkward.  
  
“They’ve… known you for longer, Sir,” I said, haltingly. “I didn’t want to presume.”  
  
I wasn’t stupid. I knew I was the only one to call him Sir, weird as that seemed. But I really hadn’t wanted to presume. There had been a lot of turnover among Dad’s men over the years and I’d seen how different it could be for rookies compared to veterans. The ones who’d proved themselves, they got a little more leeway. A little more latitude. (A little more rope to hang themselves, sometimes, if they weren’t up to the challenge.) The new guys, though… God help them if they didn’t show the proper respect.  
  
I was hit by a disorienting wave of déjà vu, remembering when Captain Cavendish had told me outright not to call him Sir. But, outside the limited confines of the party, Aegis hadn’t said he’d changed his mind about me addressing him however I was most comfortable. And I was most comfortable addressing him with the respect befitting his station. It was just… easier that way. Especially while I was still figuring out, well, pretty much everything about this place and how it worked.  
  
(I tried not to think less of him for the fact that he clearly didn’t value his rank enough to insist that his subordinates address him in the proper manner. I tried not to think that he needed to man the fuck up and **make** them respect him. It was… different with Captain Cavendish. He could afford to be a little more lax about that kind of thing. Strange though it still seemed, his subordinates seemed to respect him anyway. Even if — and this was something I was still trying to get my head around — they didn’t seem to fear what he’d do if they didn’t. But in general, the other Wards’ attitudes to Aegis’ authority were, frankly, deplorable, and I didn’t have the first fucking clue why he was happy to let that stand.)  
  
(Maybe it was because he was…)  
  
(No. No, I wouldn’t think that. I refused. I was better than that, dammit.)  
  
(I fucking had to be.)  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
This was ridiculous. I was being idiotic. Addressing him by name probably would be fine, weird though it seemed. I just… couldn’t quite make myself do it. Not without him specifically giving me the green light. Not while we were on duty, anyway, and group training definitely counted as being on duty.  
  
Maybe I should try it when next we were both off-duty? See how it went?  
  
Maybe.  
  
I just needed time to settle in, that was all; to get my bearings and suss out the lay of the land. (To work out what would set him off.) Maybe I would let the formality slide, when I was a little more certain of where I stood. (When I felt confident enough to start testing where the boundaries were. When I knew for sure how bad it could get.) But for now, until and unless he told me otherwise, I’d stick to being… respectful.  
  
Except it seemed I’d even managed to fuck that up.  
  
Aegis studied me for a moment, and then sighed.  
  
“Well, like I said: it was a joke. Just not a very good one, apparently.” I really had no fucking clue what to say to that. We looked at each other kind of awkwardly for a moment or two, and then Aegis sighed again. (He really did that a lot, sometimes.) “Anyway, I’d better get back to it.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said, with some relief. It seemed to be the safest option. I went through some more stretches while he headed off to join the tail end of the ongoing lesson. Not that he really needed to — he was also taking the advanced combat classes. But I respected the fact that he still trained with his subordinates as well. It was good for a commander to have a clear idea of his soldiers’ capabilities.  
  
Jackson — the officer who’d been carrying out my assessment — had told me to take a break. (I’d said I was fine, but he’d insisted.) After that, he’d said I could join in with the class if I wanted, so I finished my stretches and headed over to the others.  
  
(I totally wasn’t procrastinating until Aegis was otherwise occupied. Not in the slightest.)  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Goddammit! I swear, Shadow Stalker seemed to take a positive delight in sneaking up on me. Or maybe she just did that to everyone. Who the fuck knew? I wouldn’t have been surprised, though. If I was honest, I did envy her somewhat for her ability to move so quietly. I could be pretty stealthy when I put my mind to it, but I wasn’t too proud to admit that even at my best, I didn’t have a patch on her.  
  
Dammit.  
  
“Shadow Stalker,” I said, turning to face her. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”  
  
She’d made her opinion of the basic training the Wards received pretty fucking clear. And, seeing as she was taking the advanced course, she didn’t technically have to attend this session. Even though I was pretty sure Aegis would have preferred it if she did. Training together was a good way of improving unit cohesion, after all.  
  
(Why the fuck he hadn’t disciplined the shit out of her for her many and varied insubordinations, I did not know. Unless he had, and she just carried on the same way regardless. I had no fucking clue, and it wasn’t like I could just ask.)  
  
Shadow Stalker shrugged. Unlike the rest of us, she was wearing her full costume, so I couldn’t see her face at all. I could, however, hear the smirk in her voice as she drawled:  
  
“Showing up where I’m not expected is kind of my thing.”  
  
“Like a bad penny,” I sniffed, but I was amused despite myself. “Want to spar?” I found myself asking.  
  
(I had a moment of doubt, then, as what she’d said on Sunday wafted up into the forefront of my mind like a bad smell, but I shoved it away as best as I could. This wasn’t because she was black. It wasn’t. I just liked sparring with her because she put up a decent fight. That was all.)  
  
“Well, I didn’t come here for the kiddie class,” she said, her words dripping with disdain. “You finished with your assessment yet?”  
  
Did she mean she’d come here specifically to spar with me?  
  
The thought of that made me feel weirdly pleased. Well, maybe it wasn’t that weird. Respect was always good to have, and it sounded like she respected my fighting ability at least a little. Anyone would be pleased about that.  
  
“All done,” I confirmed. “I’m going to be joining the advanced class.”  
  
“No shit, Sherlock,” she murmured, her words filling me with a weird mixture of pride and irritation. “So, we going to do this now, or is the kiddie corner more your speed after all?”  
  
“Fuck you, bitch,” I told her, glaring not only daggers but swords and spears too. “You want to back down, that’s on you. Don’t make excuses for it.”  
  
(Sure, I wanted to smack her in the face really hard, but that was because she was a fucking bitch, not because she was black. After all, I’d also wanted to thump Clockblocker, Panacea, Gallant, Clockblocker again and even Kid Win on occasion, and they were all white. So it couldn’t have been her colour.)  
  
(Could it?)  
  
“I don’t back down!” she snapped. Whirling on her heel, she stalked (no pun intended) angrily towards the nearest unoccupied mat and planted herself there, chin up, legs akimbo and her hands on her hips; an aggressively impatient pose. “You ready?”  
  
(With an effort of will, I locked my doubts and fears were down tight, not letting even a trace of them out where she might have picked up on them. Because if she sensed even the slightest whiff of weakness, she’d be on it like a shark on chum.)  
  
“Always,” I told her, smirking, my good mood restored by her obvious ire. I strolled over there in a leisurely fashion, relishing the sensation of not being on the receiving end for once. “Oh, and Shadow Stalker?”  
  
“What?” She spat the word out like a bullet from a gun; a demand, not a request.  
  
I let my smirk turn sharp around the edges, my expression probably closer than a snarl than a smile as I took up a position opposite her.  
  
“I don’t back down either.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Well, that had certainly been invigorating.  
  
I smiled to myself, starting to towel myself dry before I remembered that I didn’t have to. With barely a thought, I severed the weak electrostatic bonds between my skin and the water molecules so that the liquid sloughed off me like I was made of teflon.  
  
That really was a useful little trick.  
  
I automatically surveilled myself for injuries as I reclaimed my metal and got dressed, startled all over again at the lack of damage. I knew it was probably weak of me, and I knew that there was no goddamned point in getting used to this state of affairs as it couldn’t possibly last much longer, but I allowed myself the indulgence of appreciating just how fucking awesome it was not to hurt for once.  
  
“What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?”  
  
Goddammit, Shadow Stalker!  
  
Only the control borne of years of practice stopped me from saying those words aloud. And from jumping half out of my skin. Instead, I turned casually to face her, refusing to feel self-conscious about the fact that we were both in a state of undress. Anyway, the fact that she was out of costume was far more off-putting than the fact that she was semi-clad. Even like this — even though I’d very vaguely known her in her civilian identity already — I had trouble thinking of her as Sophia, rather than Shadow Stalker. Maybe it was because, as Aegis had said, she so rarely took the mask off when she was in the Wards HQ.  
  
Despite the overwhelming urge to shoot Sh- **Sophia** a death glare, I forced the smile back on my face and made it even brighter and cheerier.  
  
“Just in a good mood,” I told her pleasantly. I waited a beat — just long enough for her to start to say something in response — and added: “Smacking a bitch in the face tends to do that.”  
  
I was expecting anger in response, but she just snorted, her eyes glittering with what looked like amusement. Well, that was a fucking disappointment.  
  
“Explains why I’m in such a good mood myself, then,” she said.  
  
Bitch.  
  
“Probably not as good a mood as me, though,” I fired back, careful to keep my voice to a lazy drawl. “Assuming it’s proportional.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed, showing me I’d hit my target. Heh. I didn’t even bother to keep my smirk in check. If you were counting — and you bet your fucking ass I was counting — I’d definitely won this one. If I was honest, the gym full of spectators — among them Aegis and two combat instructors — had probably counted in my favour, at least a little. The audience had apparently made Sophia think better of throwing out her little verbal jabs alongside the physical ones, and it turned out that being clear-headed made a fuck of a lot of difference to my effectiveness.  
  
(I had no fucking clue what I would’ve actually done if she’d brought up Lance’s friends again in front of God and everybody. I was still half-surprised she hadn’t done it anyway, but I sure as shit wasn’t complaining.)  
  
Having my metal had also made a difference, and that was something I definitely didn’t think Aegis would’ve allowed if we’d been sparring unsupervised.  
  
(I supposed I couldn’t really blame him if he didn’t have the highest opinion of my control right about now. No matter how much that stung.)  
  
Of course, the downside to having an audience was that we’d had to hold back, which had been more than a little frustrating. I’d even worn my new sparring gloves, although that had at least partly because it would have been rude not to with Kid Win right there. He had seemed pretty pleased when I’d brought them out earlier, so I guessed that was worth the nagging suspicion that I was getting soft. I tried not to think that it was actually kind of nice not to have freshly bruised and split knuckles for once. Just as I tried not to wonder how much of a difference having relatively undamaged hands would make if I ended up in a fight right now.  
  
I pretty much failed on both counts.  
  
Dammit.  
  
Even holding back as much we were, though, both of us had gotten told to take it down a notch or three more than once.  
  
“Let’s see how well you do when it’s just you and me again,” Sophia sneered, surging forward into my personal space.  
  
I stood my ground and stared down at her.  
  
“Looking forward to it,” I drawled, keeping my tone light no matter how much I wanted to snarl and snap. All the better to push the bitch’s buttons. “Means I won’t have to go easy on you.”  
  
“Likewise,” she said, in a far milder tone than I would’ve hoped for, and there was a speculative glint in her eyes that I didn’t like one bit. And as for the slow smile that spread across her face, well, I liked that even less. “Guess you really do like trying to beat up black girls,” she murmured.  
  
I wasn’t sure if it was the words, the gloating tone — like the cat that got the cream, the canary, and the comfy cushion to boot — or the slight but noticeable emphasis on the word ‘trying,’ but the next thing I knew, I had my hands on her shoulders and I was shoving her back against the row of lockers. She hit the surface hard, the noise of the impact almost deafeningly loud, but she didn’t so much as gasp, let alone cry out.  
  
The bitch even kept smiling that utterly infuriating smile.  
  
“I am not a fucking nazi!” I snapped, getting ready to wipe that fucking smile off her stupid, smirking face.  
  
I was so fucking **mad** right now. My heart was pounding like a drum, my chest heaving like I’d just run a marathon; like there just wasn’t enough air in here.  
  
The part of my brain that wasn’t consumed by fury was busy wondering why the fuck she wasn’t phasing, or head-butting me, or otherwise fighting back. Anything but lounge there against the locker like she was there by choice, looking for all the world like she’d fucking won.  
  
Except…  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck!  
  
She fucking had won, hadn’t she? For certain values of winning. Because, for all her snapping and snarling earlier, I was the one who’d actually lost control. I was the one who’d broken the fucking rules.  
  
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said, while I tried uselessly to get my thoughts in order. (While I forced my metal back into quiescence.) “Guess I could have you wrong.”  
  
Before I could say or do anything more, there was a soft sound from somewhere behind me: a footstep; an indrawn breath.  
  
Shit! I’d broken the rules in front of a fucking **witness**.  
  
I let go of Shadow Stalker as if her skin burned my hands, moving and turning so I could keep her in my field of vision while I got a good look at the newcomer.  
  
Missy.  
  
Of course. If I’d thought about it for even half a second, I would’ve figured her for the most likely candidate. She stood there, mask in hand, looking uncertainly at the two of us.  
  
“You got a problem, Munchkin?” Sophia demanded, the words jagged and sharp, like a mouthful of broken glass. “Need someone to wipe your ass for you?”  
  
Missy’s expression morphed from uncertainty to utter fury in no time flat, and she choked and spluttered, unable to properly voice the anger I could see in her eyes.  
  
I shook my head, shooting Sophia a thoroughly disgusted look.  
  
“You are such a cunt, Hess,” I said flatly.  
  
“And you’re a psycho bitch who probably burned your own fucking house down,” she shot back, the shock of the words like being doused in ice water. Now it was my turn to reel; my turn to choke on words I couldn’t force past a lump in my throat. The look Sophia gave me then was one of pure, poisonous triumph. Apparently satisfied with her victory, she turned her fucking back on me and started pulling her costume back on.  
  
I glowered at the back of her head, fighting the overwhelming temptation to drop her through the floor and seal the hole behind her, reminding myself that I probably shouldn’t break the rules again.  
  
Anyway, the bitch would only phase her way out of it.  
  
I still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t done so when I’d grabbed her.  
  
“I told you,” I muttered, finally finding my voice. “I didn’t burn my fucking house down.” The words sounded far too half-hearted for my liking, but that was the best I had right now.  
  
Missy swallowed hard — like she was swallowing back all the angry words she hadn’t managed to hurl at Sophia — took a slow, deep breath, and marched off in the direction of the showers. All in all, that was probably for the best.  
  
I really needed to stop letting Short, Dark and Cunty rattle my cage like this. Hellfire and damnation! I wasn’t sure even Lance could get under my skin so easily, and he had a whole fucking lifetime of memories to work with.  
  
(I really fucking wished I didn’t respect her for her skill at psychological warfare. So many people concentrated solely on the physical, and neglected the rest, but she’d apparently got it all down. The cow. Clearly, I was going to have to up my game.)  
  
(I refused to acknowledge the rush of anticipation I felt at the thought.)  
  
“Whatever,” she said, dismissively.  
  
I glared at her a moment more for good measure and then started pulling on my own costume. (Well, one of the generic ones the PRT kept in stock. But that was close enough for government work. No pun intended.)  
  
For a few moments, the only sounds in there were the rustle of clothing and the soft hissing of Missy’s shower. And then, to my surprised irritation, Sophia spoke again.  
  
“Hey, Berklow.”  
  
“It’s Carver,” I said shortly, resolutely not looking in her direction despite the target I swore I could feel on my back. “Get it right.”  
  
“Like I care,” she sniffed. “You’ll be getting a proper name soon enough.”  
  
A proper name? I assumed she meant a cape name.  
  
“What do you want?” I growled, absolutely out of patience for her shit.  
  
“To make something clear,” she said, and her voice was that silk over steel tone I recognised from the very end of my first, ignominious attempt to smack her down. A lifetime’s worth of instincts had me moving almost before the danger even registered. That was the only thing that stopped me going ass over apex when she went to try to take me down. As it was, I ended up awkwardly half-twisted around and sort of leaning backwards while she did her level best to loom over me.  
  
Lance was better at it, but she didn’t do badly for being shorter and slimmer than me.  
  
Annoyed, I used my metal for extra leverage and shoved myself upright, so we were practically nose to nose. I really didn’t want to stop there, but I held myself back, curious to see what she would do now.  
  
“You’re a regular chatty Cathy today,” I murmured, pleased when her eyes narrowed fractionally. Equilibrium restored, I added, in a louder voice: “If you’ve got something to say, just spit it the fuck out.”  
  
Holding my gaze, she inclined her head fractionally.  
  
“You get that one for free,” she said, still in that low purr of a voice. “But go for me again, and I will fuck you up.”  
  
“You’re welcome to try, bitch,” I murmured back. Suddenly, much to my surprise, I realised I was grinning. Not a snarl, an actual, genuine smile, if one that — if it at all accurately reflected what I was feeling right now — was probably more than a little fierce. “Like I said before, though,” I continued, buoyed by the feeling that I had solid ground beneath my feet once more; that I was no longer trying to walk on quicksand. “You actually want to scare me, you’re going to have to get creative.” I drew myself up, leaning forward just a little so I could practically whisper my next words in her ear. “But if you do take a shot a me, little girl, you’d sure as shit better make sure you don’t miss.”  
  
“I don’t miss,” she drawled, and I pulled back a little to look at her, almost but not quite surprised to see her wearing a smile that could’ve been a twin to my own.  
  
I shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to see about that.”  
  
It was nice to know there was at least one person in this place who didn’t subscribe to that ‘soft and gentle’ shit.  
  
(Who didn’t treat me like a fucking victim.)  
  
On that note, by mutual, unspoken agreement, we disengaged and stood down. I started putting my boots on. Sophia snagged her holsters and started attaching them to her costume. The silence felt weirdly companionable to me, considering what had just preceded it. Distantly, I noticed that the shower had stopped. There was no sign of Missy, though. Perhaps she was using one of the cubicles.  
  
I glanced over in Sophia’s direction and, on a whim, decided to ask the question that was nagging at me.  
  
“Why didn’t you do anything when I grabbed you?” I asked, in my best neutral tone.  
  
“Why didn’t you, just now?” she retorted.  
  
I thought about it for a moment, and then decided to go with the truth.  
  
“Wanted to see what you’d do.”  
  
Unexpectedly, her lips twisted in a wry smile.  
  
“Same.”  
  
It was a test, then. I could understand that. I’d figured it was something of the sort, but it was good to have confirmation. I resisted the urge to ask what her conclusions were. Probably that it was laughably easy for her to push my buttons.  
  
Dammit.  
  
Finishing with her holsters, Sophia shrugged into her coat and picked up her mask. Before pulling it on, though, she turned to look at me, her gaze considering. Slowly, she nodded.  
  
“Carver,” she said.  
  
Huh. How about that?  
  
“Hess,” I replied, matching her deadpan tone exactly. I wasn’t sure why, but I found myself adding: “Good hunting out there.”  
  
“I fucking hope so,” she said. On that note, naturally, she pulled her mask on and strode out of the door. And, just as it swung closed behind her, I heard her say one last thing. "I could do with a real workout."  
  
"Bitch," I muttered, my face not entirely sure whether it wanted to glower or grin.  
  
It was too late, of course. She was already out of earshot, and there was no fucking way I was going to chase after her.  
  
I guessed she really did like to have the last word.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I heard (and felt) the door to one of the changing cubicles open. A moment later, Missy peered around the corner. Our eyes met, and she moved forward into the main part of the locker room, towelling at her damp hair. Her expression wasn’t giving much away, but I fancied she seemed cautious.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I was going to have to do some damage control, wasn’t I?  
  
“Shadow Stalker’s gone,” I told her, like it wasn’t obvious. Hell, she’d probably heard the whole tail end of the conversation from her changing cubicle. It wasn’t like they were soundproofed. Christ on a crutch. I really did fucking suck at this. From the flat look Missy gave me, I thought she probably agreed. Feeling suddenly restless, I grabbed my hairbrush and set about brushing my hair. It didn’t take half as long to do that these days, but it still had that irritating tendency to tangle if anyone so much as looked at it crosswise. As if thinking about it had been enough to make it happen, the brush caught in a snarl. “Dammit,” I muttered. “I should have brushed my hair before I dried it.”  
  
“Why didn’t you?” Missy asked. Her tone was neutral, and she was still studying me with a closed-off kind of wariness.  
  
“I used my power to get rid of the water,” I explained. “But I didn’t think to brush my hair first.”  
  
“I see,” she said quietly. She put her towel in the relevant laundry basket and started seeing to her own hair. She’d barely even started, however, before she stopped and turned to me. I tried not to think about how badly I was going to fuck this all up. “You didn’t have to stick up for me,” she said, glaring, her voice low and tight. “I can look after myself.”  
  
Okay. I got that.  
  
“I wasn’t,” I said, mostly but not entirely truthfully. “I was just calling a spade a spade.” I grinned, crossing my fingers that a little humour would actually help, rather than pissing her off even more. “Or, in this case, calling a cunt a cunt.” Missy twitched a little and I frowned before I could stop myself, wondering what the fuck I’d done now. With a little thought, one possibility suggested itself. “Ah, sorry. I kind of swear a lot, especially when I’m pissed off. And Shadow Stalker really pissed me off. I can try and tone it down if you want.”  
  
“It’s fine,” she said quickly, talking right over the end of my sentence. “I don’t mind. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all. Most people don’t swear so much around me. And they don’t really tend to use that word.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, my face heating a little with embarrassed self-consciousness. “Well, like I said: she really pissed me off.”  
  
“It’s fine,” she said, again. “It doesn’t bother me. Really. I was just startled. Briefly.” She studied me, looking like there was something she wanted to say. I waited her out, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What were…” she began, then pulled a face and tried again. “What did I walk in on?”  
  
I considered my words.  
  
“A difference of opinion,” I said eventually, which seemed as good a way of describing it as any. “We were talking about sparring, and I guess things kind of… got out of hand.”  
  
Missy made a noncommittal sound, the wariness in her eyes and stance noticeably more pronounced as she said, carefully: “I heard what you said.”  
  
What I said? What had I said? I thought back to when I’d first noticed that Shadow Stalker and I weren’t alone, and… Oh.  
  
“That I’m not a fucking nazi?” I asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the anger from my voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Missy said quietly, her eyes fixed on mine. “What was that about?”  
  
“It was about that fucking irritating bitch trying to wind me up,” I growled, getting pissed off all over again.  
  
In a distant part of my mind, I acknowledged the hypocrisy inherent in getting angry at Shadow Stalker for needling me, when I’d deliberately and with malice aforethought — not to mention a fuck of a lot of enjoyment — done exactly the same thing to her. (When I did that to Lance all the damn time.)  
  
The thought didn’t help my temper one jot or fucking tittle.  
  
(Nor did the fact that she, apparently, was better at pushing my buttons than I was at pushing hers.)  
  
Missy swallowed for some reason. “Seems like she succeeded,” she said, the lightness of her tone belying her tense, almost defensive stance.  
  
I glowered at her for a moment, instinctively, and then my mind caught up with my temper and I forcefully reminded myself that Missy wasn’t the enemy here. No matter how mad I got, she — like Chris — wasn’t an acceptable target. Not under any circumstances. (I was pretty fucking sure she’d be thoroughly pissed if she knew I was thinking anything along those lines — let alone grouping her in with Chris like that — but I didn’t give a shit. There were some things you just didn’t do.) Needles of shame pricked at my insides as I relaxed my own tense stance, making my hands uncurl.  
  
At least my metal had stayed put, though. So, progress?  
  
“Yeah,” I said quietly, not allowing myself the relief of looking away from the person who even now was watching me like she half-expected me to take a swing at her. Even though seeing that made me feel all kinds of awful. I took a slow, deep breath, carefully considering my words. “I’m not proud of losing control like that.”  
  
Missy studied me for a moment longer, and then relaxed a little, shrugging.  
  
“It’s Shadow Stalker,” she said, dismissively. “She probably deserved it.” A sharp-edged kind of amusement flickered over her face, briefly, before fading back into cautious consideration. “So, do you know why she called you…” Her gaze darted briefly to my hands, and I reassured myself that my posture was relaxed and open. Well, my hands weren’t clenched into fists, at any rate. I didn’t think true relaxation was really on the cards right about now. “What she called you?” she finished.  
  
A mirthless smile stretched my lips.  
  
“A fucking nazi, you mean?” I asked mildly. Like I really needed to ask.  
  
“Yeah,” Missy replied. “Why would she say that?”  
  
For a long moment, I see-sawed back and forth over what — or even if — to answer. In the end, though, it came down to one deciding factor: controlling the information flow. Shadow Stalker knew all about Lance’s Empire friends, and I couldn’t afford to assume she was going to keep that information to herself. This way, at least I had a chance to get out ahead of it.  
  
Well, technically, getting out ahead would have been bringing it up before Missy walked in on me and Sophia… vigorously disagreeing with each other. But, even if I was actually behind right now, maybe I’d at least be able to play catchup.  
  
I sighed heavily, wondering if I’d be apologising for my family my whole fucking life.  
  
“Because you can’t choose your family,” I murmured. Missy eyed me askance at that, so I strengthened my voice and continued. “My brother is an asshole with asshole friends. Some of those asshole friends are with the fucking Empire, or at least the kind of bastards who’d want to be. Shadow Stalker knows this because I went to Winslow. She keeps throwing it in my face because she’s a bitch.”  
  
I made myself stop and take a breath, trying to think calming thoughts. Like how good it would feel to kick seven shades of shit out of Lance for fucking over my attempt to fit in with my new gang. No, wait. Not that. Something else. Like… like mini-quiches. And bacon. And lemon meringue. Oh, and that awesome, no, **Awesome** Carrot Cake, of course.  
  
Okay. Calm now.  
  
Also, really fucking hungry.  
  
But I had to concentrate. This was important.  
  
I held Missy’s gaze levelly, willing her to believe me.  
  
“I’m not friends with those kinds of people,” I said. “And I’m sure as shit not one of them. I don’t… think that way.” At least, I was trying really fucking hard not to. That had to count for something, right? I took a breath. “I’m not a fucking nazi,” I said. “And I think Shadow Stalker knows that. At least, I hope she does.” On occasion, she’d seemed almost friendly. For certain values of friendly. She wouldn’t even have made that much effort if she really did think I was one of those assholes. Would she? “But she knows accusing me of being one of those bastard motherfuckers winds me up something chronic.” I had to look away, then, momentarily clenching my jaw so tightly that I thought I could feel my teeth creak. “I really fucking hate nazis,” I growled.  
  
The silence stretched for long enough that it started to feel really fucking awkward. More awkward. Whatever. If I couldn’t see her right there in my peripheral vision, I would’ve thought Missy had left. After what felt like a lifetime, she spoke.  
  
“So, a black girl called you a nazi, and you thought you’d disprove it by… trying to put her head through a locker door?”  
  
The unexpectedness of the words startled a laugh out of me, pitiful though it was, and I glanced at Missy to see her lips curving upwards in a small, but definitely welcome smile.  
  
“Yeah, well,” I muttered, flushing. “I wasn’t exactly thinking straight at the time.” Honesty made me amend that to: “Or thinking at all, in fact.”  
  
I really wanted to ask if Missy was planning on going to Aegis with any of this, but my pride wouldn’t let me. If she did, she did. That was all there was to it. (And at least then I’d know for sure how harshly Aegis dealt with infractions. I wouldn’t have to wonder and fret and be so goddamned twitchy all the time.)  
  
“Stalker’s good at pushing buttons,” Missy muttered darkly, scowling.  
  
“I’d noticed that,” I said dryly.  
  
I was pretty sure that Missy still had more to say, so — despite the cowardly temptation to scurry on out of there before she could do so — I took my time packing up my toiletries. The silence between us felt less awkward this time, I thought. I hoped.  
  
Maybe I hadn’t fucked things up with Missy too badly after all.  
  
As if she’d heard her name in my thoughts, she picked that moment to clear her throat.  
  
“That other stuff she said…” she began uncertainly, fiddling aimlessly with a hairdryer. “Your… Your house.” She paused there, as if waiting for me to fill in the gap, but I let the silence stretch. Just because I’d more or less made up my mind to give her an answer, of sorts, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to make her actually ask the damn question. She broke first, taking a deep, audible breath, and then speaking all in a rush, the words tumbling over each other. “Did your house really burn down? Why does Shadow Stalker think you did it?”  
  
I wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad sign that she didn’t ask me outright whether or not I had.  
  
Hellfire and damnation. I did not have enough coffee in my system for this conversation.  
  
Okay. Deep breath. Better get this over with.  
  
“Yes, my house burned down. No, it wasn’t me. Yes, I can prove that. The only times I’ve left this building since I got here were to go shopping with Gallant and both Dallon sisters, and to go for my evaluation. Fuck knows whether or not Shadow Bitch actually thinks I did it, but I’d bet my left tit she’d bring it up regardless, just ‘cause she fucking knows it’ll get a goddamn reaction from me!” I belatedly registered the fact that Missy had shrunk back a little, and I was absolutely fucking mortified to realise I’d been practically yelling in her face by the end of my little rant. Calm thoughts, idiot. Remember the Cake. “Sorry,” I muttered, my face feeling like a furnace. “It’s kind of a sore subject.”  
  
It took Missy a moment or two to find her voice.  
  
“That’s… okay,” she said. “I can understand that.” She swallowed hard, and then, in a tiny voice, asked: “Are your family alright?”  
  
I went still, my features freezing into blankness.  
  
“I don’t know,” I said woodenly. “They’ve disappeared. The only thing I know is that there were no… no bodies.”  
  
They weren’t dead. They hadn’t been captured. (They weren’t being… hurt. Maimed. Broken.)  
  
They were fine.  
  
They…  
  
I…  
  
I felt… weird. My heart was racing, and I couldn’t quite seem to catch my breath. It was too hot in here, or maybe too cold: I couldn’t tell. Too something, anyway. The world started to waver around me, briefly, but I forced myself to push through it. No fucking way was I going to allow my body to just… fail me like this, for no goddamn reason. This, whatever it was, was weakness. And weakness was…  
  
(‘You know the penalty for weakness, girl.’)  
  
…un-fucking-acceptable.  
  
I ignored the way my body wanted to pant uselessly for oxygen and made myself take a slow, deep breath, hold for a three-count, and then exhale smoothly. It felt almost like my lungs were fighting me, but I had experience and stubborn bloody-mindedness on my side. What was mere flesh (useless, frail, never fucking strong enough; never fucking good enough) in the face of that?  
  
“Astrid? Astrid!”  
  
Why was Missy yelling?  
  
Confused, I looked up (when had I looked away?) and found my vision split and split again, criss-crossed by metal wires. No… blades; a thicket of blades that had sprung up inexplicably from the ground, forming themselves into a barricade. I felt them shiver as I turned my attention to them; a sensation that made me think of a snake about to strike. A whole fucking nest of snakes.  
  
Oh God.  
  
What the fuck had I done?  
  
Frantically, desperately, I made the blades retract into the floor. Fixing the damage I’d caused to the building was a secondary concern; a distant second as I frantically searched for…  
  
“Missy?” My voice cracked on her name. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and made myself continue. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”  
  
“I’m fine,” she said. Her voice sounded like it came from a long way away, which was probably because it did. The locker room was now about the size of a soccer pitch. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was the same size, it had just been… stretched. If that made sense. Which I knew it didn’t, but this was not the time to give myself a migraine trying to figure out how the fuck Missy’s power interacted with solid matter. “Are you alright?”  
  
The words were cautious, and I tried not to cringe with mortification (horror) at my utterly fucking shameful loss of control (at what I’d almost done).  
  
“Fine,” I muttered. “Just… really fucking embarrassed right now.” I took a breath, and forced myself to add: “I’m really sorry about that.”  
  
Missy didn’t reply straight away. I focused my attention on obsessively smoothing out every little scratch and dent until the locker room showed no trace of my stupid little wibble fit. Whatever the fuck it was.  
  
It was just a damn good thing, I reflected, that the PRT had gone for the option of vinyl floor coverings throughout, rather than some kind of tile.   
  
I felt the surfaces contract again, and I looked up to see Missy back in her original position, studying me.  
  
“It’s okay,” she said. A small frown creased the skin of her brow. “I take it you didn’t mean to do that?”  
  
I hated that the uncertain lilt to her voice; like she was genuinely unsure whether someone who was supposed to be her teammate would have nearly skewered her with metal blades by accident or on fucking purpose. Christ. What must she think of me?  
  
“Of course not,” I said, my voice rougher than I would’ve liked.  
  
Moving slowly, carefully, she sat on the bench near me. Not right next to me, thankfully, but not far away. Even so close, though, I had to strain my ears to hear her voice when she spoke.  
  
“When I first… got my power,” she said. “Sometimes I’d find that… if I really wanted to not be somewhere, or to be somewhere, or whatever, I’d start trying to make it happen. Without consciously meaning to. Maybe it’s a bit like that with yours?”  
  
“It does sometimes seem like it has a mind of its own,” I admitted grudgingly. “Usually I can control it, but sometimes…” I shrugged. “Well, you saw. Although it’s usually just my own metal that acts up. I think this is the first time anything like…” I waved a hand vaguely around me, trusting that she’d understand the gesture. “Like this has happened.”  
  
(Well, aside from when I’d triggered, with that Dali-Giger barricade I’d made from part of the Boardwalk. But I didn’t want to think about that.)  
  
I wondered if it meant anything that my power had apparently acted to protect me while I’d been… indisposed. A rather aggressive kind of protection, perhaps, but then Dad always said that the best defence was a fucking effective offence.  
  
(‘And a pre-emptive strike is the best fucking offence there is, girl. Because your enemies can’t do shit if they’re already dead.’)  
  
Missy regarded me solemnly. She seemed tired all of a sudden. I could relate to that.  
  
“It gets better,” she said; the words a flat statement of fact, her voice a touch deeper than usual. The effect was spoiled a little when her voice warbled slightly, as if under strain. “When it’s not so-" She cut herself off, shooting me a glare that dared me to make anything of it. When she continued, her voice was back to normal. "It gets better.” She scrunched up her face for a moment in seeming dissatisfaction. “It gets easier, I mean," she corrected herself. "It did for me. With practice.” There was a brief hesitation, and then she continued. “And when I actually started using my power.”  
  
I took moment to consider how fucking bizarre it was that I was being lectured by a fucking twelve year old. I took another moment to reflect on how pathetic that made me. And then I took a third moment to remind myself that, young or not, Missy had had her powers for years; had been a Ward for almost that long. She’d paid her dues, and I should respect that.  
  
“I use my power all the time,” I said. “I can’t not use it.”  
  
“No,” she said, impatience making her words staccato. “Not just for little things, or even sparring. I mean, using it **properly**.”  
  
Her voice was oddly intense, incongruously so if you didn’t know who she was. I considered her words, turning them over in my mind until they fit.  
  
“You mean using it to fight,” I said quietly. And, fuck, that made sense. Especially in light of some of the things Dad had said over the years.  
  
There was, I reflected, a certain kind of irony in that. If I wanted my control back, I was going to have to let my power off its leash.  
  
I thought my power liked the idea.  
  
(I… kind of liked the idea.)  
  
(No. I **really** liked the idea.)  
  
She nodded. “Something like that.”  
  
A thought occurred to me, and I almost groaned aloud.  
  
“But I broke the rules,” I said. “I used my power on the building. Won’t I be…” (punished) “benched for that?”  
  
“Maybe, maybe not,” she said, not at all reassuringly. But then, much to my surprise, she smiled. “But only if they find out. And I wasn’t planning on saying anything.”  
  
It took me a moment to digest that.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, sincerely.  
  
(Even if a part of me couldn’t help wondering if maybe Aegis should be told.)  
  
(I’d fucked up, after all. I’d broken the rules and I’d nearly hurt Missy as a consequence.)  
  
(I deserved to be disciplined for that.)  
  
“And thank you for the advice,” I added, even though it still stung, a little, that I’d needed it at all. “I appreciate it.”  
  
Now I just had to figure out how to act on it.


	39. Aphenphosmphobia 3.12

I took off the headset and looked up to see a sight that defied all rhyme and reason; one that made me wonder if I’d somehow stumbled through a portal onto an alternate earth.  
  
“Are you feeling alright?” I asked, amused.  
  
Dennis gave me a quizzical look. (He was technically still in costume, albeit maskless, but the shift had ended. Technically we were off-duty. So civilian names were probably not inappropriate at this juncture.)  
  
“Everything’s tickity-boo, thanks,” he said, cheerfully. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“You’re clearing up your own mess,” I pointed out. “Voluntarily.”  
  
Although, I couldn’t help noticing, he hadn’t turned the console into nearly as much of a tip as Chris had when I’d shadowed him on monitor duty. Not that this was really saying much, but it still came as something of a surprise.  
  
The look Dennis gave me was comically offended. “I’m feeling gravely misjudged over here,” he complained.  
  
I snorted as I started helping him sort out the desk’s contents into trash, recycling, washing-up and what I would charitably call ‘food.’  
  
“Judged, yes. Unfairly, not so much,” I replied, narrowing my eyes at him a little. “Don’t you remember the state you left the kitchen in yesterday morning? I sure as shit do. I’m the muggins who ended up having to clean it up!”  
  
“Oh. That.” At least he had the grace to look a little shamefaced, if only briefly. “I was in a hurry. I… kind of overslept that morning. ” That, I could believe. Given how late we’d stayed up the night before, I’d been sorely tempted to stay in bed myself. Unlike him, though, I had the self-discipline not to yield to such temptations. “Anyway, I was going to deal with it when I got back,” he added, the words ringing a little hollow. “And I didn’t ask you to clean up.”  
  
“Like I could’ve left it in that state,” I muttered, and then realised my mistake when he paused in the act of reaching for a glass to regard me speculatively.  
  
“So… you’re saying that if, hypothetically, someone — some hypothetical person — inadvertently left things around here somewhat less than shipshape, you’d feel compelled to tidy them up? Like, some kind of OCD thing?” he asked.  
  
“I don’t think it’s particularly OCD to not want to live in a pig sty,” I sniffed, glowering at him.  
  
“That’s not a no…” he sing-songed obnoxiously, smirking. The smirk was also obnoxious.  
  
I had a bad feeling about this.  
  
“If some hypothetical person kept leaving the place in a mess,” I said, in as dire a tone as I could manage. “Very unfortunate and possibly extremely painful things might start happening to them. Hypothetically.”  
  
“Just as well we’re only talking in hypotheticals, then, isn’t it?” he replied, cheerfully.  
  
“Guess so,” I muttered, eyeing him askance. Curious all over again, I asked: “What were you even doing, that you had to rummage through half the cupboards and drawers? Looking for Dean’s secret stash of fancy chocolates?”  
  
His eyebrows shot up.  
  
“Dean has a stash of fancy chocolates?” he asked, rubbing his hands together. “Tell me more…”  
  
If I’d known for certain that the chocolates actually belonged to Dean, then I might have been tempted to let slip about the reasonably clever hiding place he’d found for them. Sure, I owed him, but that didn’t preclude taking some form of revenge for the fact that he’d blabbed to Victoria about my circumstances. Even if it did limit my options a little. Unfortunately, although I thought the chocolates probably were his — according to the internet, the brand was a very high-end, expensive one, and I didn’t think any of the other Wards came from money — I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure. Which meant I didn’t want to take the risk.  
  
(I’d feel awful if it turned out that they actually belonged to Missy, or Chris. And I dreaded to think what Carlos would do if they were his. If they belonged to Sophia, on the other hand, I would have scoffed the lot myself and enjoyed the everliving fuck out of them. It would have served the bitch right.)  
  
“I’m assuming he does,” was all I said aloud, my tone dismissive. “So, what were you after? Or did the sight of a neat and tidy kitchen just offend your sense of aesthetics?”  
  
Dennis gave me a sidelong glance, and I thought for a moment he wasn’t going to let the subject of the concealed confectionary go, but then he sighed.  
  
“I was looking for… cereal?” he said, sounding not entirely certain of that. “Or maybe pop-tarts. I don’t really remember.”  
  
“What do you mean, you don’t remember?” I asked, bemused. “It was only yesterday.”  
  
“It’s all a bit hazy,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t think I really woke up until I chugged that rocket fuel of yours that was masquerading as coffee. I didn’t see the sandwich and note until then, so I was probably looking for something to eat.” He turned to face me then, smiling brilliantly as he picked up the errant glass and moved forward to put it with the plates and mugs I’d stacked neatly together in front of me. “Thanks for that, by the way,” he added. “The coffee and sandwich, I mean. It was exactly what I needed.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” I said, my irritation fading in the face of his apparently sincere gratitude. I even found myself smiling back at him. “Just don’t get used-” He abruptly vanished, flickered back into existence for the briefest instant, and then disappeared again. I broke off, first confused, and then annoyed. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered.  
  
Honestly, I was at least as irritated at myself as I was at Dennis. What the fuck had I been thinking, letting myself get distracted like that? Letting him get close enough to put his fucking hands on me; to use his fucking power? What the flying fuck was wrong with me?  
  
(I’d been vulnerable. Helpless. And I hadn’t even seen it coming.)  
  
Wait: what was on my head? And my face?  
  
Just as I thought that, the asshole himself spoke.  
  
“Now, is that the kind of language a princess should use?”  
  
His voice came from some distance behind me; a smart move on his part. If he’d been within sight, or within arm’s reach, I might’ve been tempted to do something… precipitous. A beat later, though, I registered what it was he’d actually said.  
  
“What the flying fuck are you blithering on about?” I snapped, turning to face him. The thing on my head — apparently balanced fairly precariously, instantly slipped down to cover my eyes. I snatched it off with a muttered curse, glowering at it. It was… some sort of conical hat. A pink conical hat, with fake blonde ringlets attached to the base and a truly ludicrous amount of ribbon streaming from the peak. I had a vague memory of seeing something similar in a book of fairytales I’d read once upon a time. Worn by a pathetic fool of a princess who’d needed some equally pathetic prince to rescue her from a pretty anaemic-looking dragon. “Motherfucker!”  
  
It wasn’t just the hat, either. There was some kind of… robe thing draped over me. Also pink. The bastard really had done it! He’d dressed me up as a goddamn, motherfucking princess!  
  
I knew that fucking phrase would come back to bite me in the ass. I fucking knew it!  
  
I glared a whole armoury of sharp things at the architect of my humiliation, my mood helped not one bit when I realised that he wasn’t alone. Chris, Dean and Missy were also present, crowding in behind him in the doorway.  
  
Witnesses.  
  
Because of course there were fucking witnesses. Of course there damn well were.  
  
That was just fucking awesome.  
  
“And, henceforth, you shall be known as Princess Potty-Mouth,” Dennis intoned gravely, before abruptly dissolving into peals of near-hysterical laughter. His whole body shook so much that he almost dropped his phone, juggling it from hand to hand in a comical fashion — or, what would have been a comical fashion if I hadn’t been quite so fucking pissed off — before he managed to get a firm grip on it once more. “Your face!” he gasped out. “You should see it. Oh, man, that’s hilarious. I might just have to actually print out one of these and stick it in a nice frame.”  
  
“You took pictures?!” My voice emerged louder than I’d intended, the pitch rather closer to an outright shriek than I was at at all comfortable with.  
  
“Well, duh,” he said, giving me a look like I’d just said something completely and utterly moronic. “Alas, Dean was being a stick-in-the mud, so I had to take them myself. I got some decent ones, though, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”  
  
“Maybe Dean actually values his hide,” I growled before I could stop myself. “Unlike you, apparently.”  
  
Dean, I noted, was looking a little concerned right now. As well he fucking should. Missy was showing off her poker face. Chris, on the other hand, was grinning like this was the most hilarious thing he’d seen in his whole goddamn life. (I tried not to feel betrayed, reminding myself that he was Dennis’ friend, not mine. Even though he had said he liked spending time with me. Even though I kind of liked spending time with him.)  
  
Despite the temptation to hurl more invective — and maybe something a little more substantial — in Dennis’ direction, I made myself stop, take a breath, and form a mirror out of my metal. After all, if I was going to retaliate appropriately — and you bet your fucking ass I was going to retaliate for this — I should probably see the full extent of the damage. You never knew. Maybe it wasn’t actually as bad as-  
  
“Son of a bitch!” I burst out, wrenching my eyes away from my own stupid reflection to skewer Dennis with a glare. “You flaming, diarrhetic asshole! You… You…” Words failed me briefly, and I hunted around for a phrase that would adequately express my opinion of that… that… “Dogbuggering dickweasel!”  
  
From the way Missy’s eyes widened slightly, and Chris hiccuped out a startled-sounding laugh, it seemed I’d succeeded.  
  
Make-up. The fucker had gone and put fucking make-up on my goddamn face. Lipstick, blusher and eyeshadow in various shades of, you guessed it, pink. Not that I needed the blusher with the way my cheeks were blazing like a bonfire right about now, but there it was anyway. And… and glitter. So much fucking glitter! I fucking sparkled!  
  
That… That utter **asshole**.  
  
It was one thing to throw a robe and hat over someone, but this? This was… It was too much. He’d been right up in my fucking face — literally — for who the fuck knew how long, putting this shit right on my skin. (Just the very thought of it was ice down my spine; a full-body shudder trying to get out.) Had the others been here for that? Had they stood and watched him work? Had they laughed their fucking heads off at the sight of someone like me being made up like I was some kind of… like some delicate little girly girl? Fuck, I looked like a goddamn clown. A freak.  
  
“I think maybe…” Dean began, sounding wary, but exactly what he thought was apparently destined to remain a mystery when Dennis just blithely spoke over him, drawing my attention like a fucking homing missile.  
  
“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” he pouted. “I would’ve thought you, of all people, would appreciate the value of hard work. Personally, I think I did an awesome job, especially when you consider that I was in fear for my life at the time. I mean, you could’ve unfrozen at any moment, and I might not have been quick enough to freeze you again before you did something… unfortunate to me.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, and then his face broke out into a truly shit-eating grin. “The experience was quite thrilling.”  
  
The worst thing about this — the absolute worst thing — was that, as far as I could tell, he actually had done a good job with the make-up. Technically. Not that I was anywhere close to an expert on the stuff, but even I could tell that it hadn’t just been slapped on any old how. There was, like, shading and shit. Subtle stuff. The bastard really had made a fucking effort.  
  
At least if he’d slathered it on with a trowel I would’ve known he was intentionally going for grotesquerie. As it was, though…  
  
(Apropos of nothing, my mind flickered back to last Saturday’s shopping trip, helpfully reminding me of how I’d looked standing next to Victoria. It didn’t make me feel any better.)  
  
Whatever. This was stupid. I was being stupid. It was only a bit of fucking make-up. I could deal with it easily enough. I almost did, right then and there, but I stopped myself. I couldn’t let Dennis see how much I wanted this shit gone. I couldn’t. It was bad enough that I hadn’t been able to contain my temper enough not to yell at him, but hopefully he thought that was just a general kind of rage over the prank as a whole, rather than anything more specific.  
  
Anyway, anger was fine, even if I was annoyed at myself for giving Dennis the reaction he’d so obviously wanted. Anger was strength, as long as you didn’t let it drive you into losing control. It was the rest of it that was weakness.  
  
(The knotted lump of humiliation and misery sitting like a stone in my throat; the weird sense of… of… disorientation, or whatever, I felt when I saw myself all made up like a china doll. The ice-cold awareness of just how helpless I’d been. All of it. Just… too many goddamn feelings.)  
  
On the plus side, at least I was using my fucking words. And, speaking of which…  
  
“Clearly, you don’t fear me enough,” I said, giving Dennis a dark look. “I see I’m going to have to work on that.”  
  
He just laughed. The bastard.  
  
“If you think anything up to and including mortal terror is enough to keep me from my art,” he said, smirking, “then you clearly don’t know me at all.”  
  
Unwillingly, I found my anger ebbing fractionally, ameliorated by something that was uncomfortably close to admiration. Maybe even respect. For some bizarre reason, in that moment, he kind of reminded me a little bit of Sh… So… of Hess. Huh. Weird. And also irrelevant.  
  
“You’re an asshole,” I told him, but even I could hear that the edge in my voice had softened slightly, blurred by something not a million miles away from amusement.  
  
Dammit.  
  
“True,” he agreed, rather more readily than I would’ve expected. “But, in my defence, this was hilarious. And I did owe you for freezing my ass off.” He sounded utterly, thoroughly unrepentant, apparently unperturbed by my previous display of temper. Still, he had carefully positioned himself out of immediate smacking range, which suggested that he actually did possess at least some sort of rudimentary survival instinct.  
  
Maybe he wasn’t quite as unfazed as he seemed.  
  
I could only fucking hope.  
  
“I tried to warn you,” Chris said, his tone sympathetic even as his eyes still sparkled with amusement at my expense. “Dennis lives for this kind of thing. It was really only a matter of time before he retaliated for freezing his chair. And this really isn’t so bad, all things considered.” He pulled a face. “Trust me, it could’ve been much worse.”  
  
“Don’t give him ideas, Chris,” Missy muttered, rolling her eyes.  
  
To my surprise, their words actually… helped? If nothing else, at least they pulled me far enough out of the lingering feedback loop of anger and humiliation that I could actually make myself calm the fuck down.  
  
Much though it galled me to admit it, Dennis was right. I had used my power on him, so turnabout was only fair play. Getting mad about it was petty and hypocritical. I’d said I could take anything he could dish out, and I would be damned if I’d make a liar out of myself by being a sore fucking loser when he got his own licks in. Dennis had got me fair and square: lulled me into a false sense of security, distracted me, and gone in for the kill. I had to respect that.  
  
I mean, I wouldn’t be letting my guard down around him again anytime soon — fuck, I still couldn’t believe I’d done so in the first place — but I could respect his ability to execute a good prank.  
  
“Fine. You got me,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. Grudgingly — very grudgingly — I nodded at him and added: “Nicely done. Asshole.”  
  
Okay, that last word wasn’t spoken grudgingly at all.  
  
With hindsight, I really should’ve realised something was up when he started tidying. And being nice. He was never nice to me. (Aside when he’d helped me put furniture together, a traitorous voice at the back of my mind ‘helpfully’ pointed out. Or when he checked up on me after yet another fucking nightmare. Or when he’d tried to look after me following my first sparring match with Shadow Stalker. Sure, that last one had been on Aegis’ orders, but… No. Enough. I was getting distracted. Anyway, I was mad at him. The last fucking thing I wanted to do right now was think about his good points, such as they were.)  
  
“Why, thank you, Princess Potty-Mouth,” he said, sweeping a completely ridiculous bow.  
  
“Don’t fucking call me that,” I muttered, although I had the dismal feeling that the moniker might be here to stay. Fuck, I thought I actually preferred New Girl, and that irritated the everliving piss out of me!  
  
“But it suits you so well,” Dennis retorted, self-satisfied amusement oozing from his every pore.  
  
I rolled my eyes and threw the stupid hat thing at him, relishing the flutter of schadenfreude I felt when he almost dropped his phone again trying to catch it.  
  
“You realise I’m going to have to get you back worse,” I said, and if there was something of an edge to my voice, well, I don’t think anyone could have reasonably blamed me for it.  
  
“I know you’re going to try,” he retorted, smirking in an eminently punchable way.  
  
“This will all end in fire,” Dean muttered ominously, shaking his head. “Fire and screaming and blood. You mark my words.” To my eyes, he still seemed a little tense, but less so than before. And the rueful smile he gave me seemed natural enough. “I suppose advising you to quit while you’re more or less even would be a waste of breath on my part?”  
  
“You’re fucking right it would be,” I confirmed, pleased that he seemed to realise I wasn’t the kind of person who backed down from a fight. I bared my teeth at Dennis in what was technically a grin. “Fair warning, asshole. You’re going down.”  
  
“Bring it on, Princess,” he taunted, accompanying his words with the traditional beckoning gesture.  
  
I refused to dignify that with a response, turning my attention to more important things. One brief flare of power and minor act of pettiness later, and my face was clean again, the make up smeared across the front of the voluminous pink and ruffly thing Dennis had swathed me in. Feeling marginally better, I pulled off the robe, wadded it up and threw it at his head. Alas, not being the most aerodynamic of projectiles, it fell short of the target.  
  
Now that I was able to think more or less clearly again, there was something nagging at me; a puzzle I couldn’t figure out. I eyed Dennis thoughtfully.  
  
“How the fuck did you even get the make-up to stick to me while I was frozen?” I asked. “I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”  
  
“Apparently it is,” he said, airily, scooping up the robe and shaking it out. He pulled a face when he saw what I’d done to it. “Was that really necessary?” he asked, his tone aggrieved. “Now I’m going to have to wash it. If this stuff will even come out. I had plans for this costume! You’re not the only one deserving of my very special attention, you know.”  
  
“Should’ve thought about that before you stuck it on me,” I told him smugly, some of my former good mood restored by his reaction. “And you should count yourself lucky I didn’t just disintegrate the fucking thing.” I judged that it was better for my blood pressure to just ignore the innuendo completely. “But, seriously, how did you get the make up to stick? Do you have some way of interacting with people and things you’ve time-locked? Or can you just build in exceptions?”  
  
Frankly, the thought of either of those possibilities was enough to send a chill down my spine. Because, fuck, it was one thing knowing that he could prep things to fuck with me the instant I came out of stasis. It was a whole different kettle of fish if he could fuck with me directly while I was completely helpless to do anything about it.  
  
“No and no,” he said, shrugging like this wasn’t a matter of vital importance.  
  
“His power’s just weird like that,” Missy observed; the first words she’d spoken since I’d spotted her there in the doorway. Was she regarding me warily, like she half-expected me to turn the floor to blades at any second? Or was I just imagining things? I honestly wasn’t sure.  
  
“Yeah,” Chris said, nodding with rather more enthusiasm than I thought the subject really warranted. “Armsmaster was saying something about it the other day. Something about the way it interacts with light? Or doesn’t? I wasn’t actually paying that much attention because I’d just had an idea for a new way of reconfiguring power supply for my- Oh! That reminds me. Armsmaster asked me to… I was supposed to pass on a message about his research request? That you’ve been completely ignoring? Requests, in fact. Plural.”  
  
“What?” I blurted out, confused. (And ever so slightly panicky.) “Me? But I haven’t… I mean, there wasn’t…” Had I somehow managed to miss a message — multiple messages — from the fucking leader of the fucking Protectorate EN-fucking-E? No, surely not. There must have been some mistake. (Fuck, I was going to end up in the basement for sure.)  
  
“”Huh?” Chris looked briefly puzzled, and then enlightenment dawned. “Oh, no. Not you, Astrid. I was talking to Dennis.”  
  
Oh, thank fuck for that.  
  
“Right. Of course,” I muttered, flushing a little with embarrassment. That certainly made more sense in context. I’d just… got flustered. And now I felt like a complete and utter fool. “Sorry,” I added.  
  
“No, my bad,” Chris said, smiling sheepishly and rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. “I should have been clearer.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, Dennis: please shoot Armsmaster a message, or give him a call or something. Anything to stop him bugging me about it. I’m not your secretary, you know.”  
  
“I was hoping he’d forget,” Dennis muttered, pulling a face. “Maybe get distracted polishing his halberd, or something.” Wait, was that…? But before I could blow a mental gasket trying to figure out if he really had just made a dirty joke at the expense of Armsmaster, of all people, he was already continuing. “It’s just so dull playing lab rat. And he gets all grouchy if I bring snacks into his lab.”  
  
“You really don’t have any fucks to give, do you?” I said, before I could think better of it.  
  
“Well, no,” he said, shrugging. “But it’s not that big a thing, really. And I’ll get around to replying eventually. I just have better things to do, you know?” He gave Chris a quizzical look. “So, just how peeved was the Beardmaster Nine Thousand?”  
  
I knew I was staring, but I couldn’t seem to make myself stop. This was just… It felt… wrong.  
  
“He seemed pretty…” Chris contorted his face into an expression that, as near as I could tell, was supposed to indicate extreme constipation. “And he did that little sigh thing just before he brought it up.”  
  
“The little, quiet one, or the full sou’wester?” Dennis asked, his countenance troubled by nothing more than mild curiosity.  
  
Chris thought about it for a moment. “The quiet one,” he said.  
  
“It’ll keep for another week, then.” Dennis sounded way too blasé for someone who had just decided to commit an act of blatant and egregious insubordination. I mean, the nicknames were bad enough, but at least that was just a private act of disrespect. This, though…  
  
I shook my head.  
  
“I will never understand you people,” I muttered, and then flushed scarlet when they all looked at me.  
  
Dennis started to say something, but Dean elbowed him none-too-gently in the side and he broke off. Ignoring the highly offended look Dennis gave him, Dean turned to me with a smile.  
  
“We are kind of an eccentric bunch, I’ll grant,” he said gently.  
  
“Some more than others,” I couldn’t help saying. Just in case that was too subtle, I nodded my head at Dennis.  
  
Dean laughed. “You’re not wrong there,” he said, despite Dennis’ half-hearted protests of victimisation. “But you will figure us out. Just give it time.”  
  
I opened my mouth to give him some meaningless words of agreement, empty platitudes to make him think that he’d convinced me, but what came out instead was:  
  
“This is all just so different to anything I’ve ever known.” My voice was so soft and hesitant that I barely even recognised it as my own. I wanted to cringe at just how weak I sounded. Hellfire and damnation. I bet the others thought I was utterly pathetic. Maybe they wouldn’t be all that wrong. And why the fuck couldn’t I make myself stop fucking talking? “And even the parts that I think should make sense… don’t.”  
  
Like the cavalier way they treated the chain of command. Like it was just a… a suggestion, rather than something with which you simply did not fuck.  
  
“I can understand that,” Dean said softly, and I had to fight not to look away from the clear sympathy — or was it pity? — in his eyes. “It must feel like your whole life’s been turned upside down.”  
  
Not trusting my voice right now, I just nodded wordlessly.  
  
This was so embarrassing. What the fuck was wrong with me? First, I lost control with Hess, then I let Dennis get close enough to freeze me without even trying to put up a fight, and now I was blabbing about my stupid fucking feelings? I seriously needed to get my shit together, starting right fucking now.  
  
Naturally, that was the moment the alarm sounded.  
  
But at least I wasn’t the only one who twitched.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

Well, fuck, I couldn’t help thinking, as I looked up at Triumph. Yet another guy who could probably fucking benchpress me without so much as breaking a goddamn sweat.  
  
Okay, that was an exaggeration. Probably. But he was tall — at last a couple of inches taller than Carlos, who wasn’t exactly on the short side — and built like a brick shithouse. I mean, I assumed his costume was designed to enhance the effect, but that could only do so much. He must have had some seriously well-developed musculature underneath it. The only saving grace was that, as far as I knew, he wasn’t a fucking brute.  
  
Small mercies, I supposed.  
  
Even without that, though, I bet he could pack a fucking punch. And he more than likely had the training that would let him make use of his strength.  
  
(It just wasn’t fair, I tried not to think.)  
   
Never had I been more thankful to be wearing a mask. Given the potent mix of envy, resignation and wariness churning inside me right now, I wasn’t entirely sure how much of that I would’ve been able to keep from my face. Everyone else had already unmasked when they saw that the non-Ward visitor was, in fact, Triumph. Carlos had been dangling his helmet casually from one hand when he rounded the corner chatting animatedly with his former commander. I wasn’t certain if I would be expected to unmask to Triumph today, but I figured I’d follow his lead in this. As long as his helmet stayed on, so too would my mask. That seemed more than reasonable to me.  
  
“It’s good to meet you, Astrid,” Triumph said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone. If I wasn’t so painfully aware that his voice was also his weapon, I might have found it pleasant.  
  
 Belatedly, I realised that I should respond.  
  
“You too, Sir,” I said, pleased that my own voice didn’t seem to betray anything of my inner turmoil. I tried not to feel relieved that he hadn’t offered a hand to shake.  
  
“You really weren’t kidding about that being a habit, were you?” Dennis murmured, and then made an indignant noise. Distantly, I wondered which one of our teammates had tried to smack some manners into him this time. From my observations so far, Missy or Dean seemed the most likely candidates. A surreptitious glance in his direction showed him levelling a glower in Dean’s direction, so I guessed that was that mystery solved.  
  
I could feel my cheeks heating with embarrassment, and I hoped vainly that my blush wasn’t too obvious. I’d been worrying off and on about how I was going to address Triumph since Carlos had told me that he was planning on stopping by. As far as I could tell from my research, Director Piggot’s explanation of the chain of command had been somewhat… simplified. That was to say, under some circumstances, Wards actually were subject to Protectorate authority. Which made sense. And still seemed like a clusterfuck waiting to happen if you asked me, but no one was likely to do that anytime soon. The important point, though, was that, in the end, I’d decided to err on the side of formality.  
  
Now, I wondered if that had been a mistake.  
  
“Oh, please don’t do that,” Triumph said, his tone oddly rueful, taking on a vaguely confiding note as he continued. “You’ll make me start looking around for Armsmaster, and I’m trying to forget that I still owe him some paperwork from yesterday.”  
  
“You hypocrite!” Dennis protested, laughing. “You always used to get on my case about filling in my paperwork. And now you’re slacking off on your own?”  
  
Maybe I was becoming inured to Dennis’ apparent complete and utter lack of respect for authority, because I barely even felt a twinge of surprise at this latest example of irreverence.  
  
“I don’t let mine pile up for weeks on end,” Triumph said, sounding amused. “Unlike certain people not a million miles away from me. But I didn’t come here to discuss your shortcomings, Dennis.”  
  
“You came here for cake, didn’t you?” Dean said slyly, while Dennis made indignant noises that no one paid attention to.  
  
Triumph laughed. He really did have a nice voice. I wondered if that was due to his power, or if it was all natural.  
  
“Okay, you got me.” He turned his attention back to me, and I tried not to tense. “But I did also want to meet you, Astrid. I hope you don’t mind that I also had ulterior motives for the timing of this visit.”  
  
“Uh, no, of course not,” I said, a little confused that he would even ask me that. I was, however, ridiculously proud of myself for managing not to call him Sir. Buoyed by his apparent good mood, I tried for a smile. “It is a fucking awesome cake.”  
  
Scattered laughter from the others made me flush a little. I didn’t see what was so funny: it **was** a fucking awesome cake. What was wrong with saying that?  
  
“I’d expect no less from one of Emilio’s creations,” Triumph told me, and he, at least, didn’t sound like he was laughing at me. My smile started to feel a little more natural on my face. “So,” he continued, anticipation clear in his voice as he looked around. “Where is his latest masterpiece?”  
  
“I’ll get it,” Carlos said, clapping him on the shoulder as he stepped past. “You go on ahead and catch up with the others.” He glanced around at the rest of us, a small smile on his lips as he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. “Anyone else want some cake?”  
  
Naturally, the response to that was overwhelmingly positive and enthusiastic, my own included. Everyone but Carlos headed for the chairs, not even waiting until they were seated before beginning their conversation. Carlos smiled at me and then turned away, making his way to the kitchen. I hesitated, dithering for what felt like a long moment, and then followed after him.  
  
“Carlos,” I said, trying to ignore the way my stomach lurched uneasily.  
  
“Yes?” he sounded a little startled, but not, I thought, displeased. And the smile he gave me looked completely genuine. I didn’t see any signs of anger at all.  
  
“Do you want some help?” I asked, trying to sound like my heart wasn’t thudding a mile a minute in my chest.  
  
“Thanks, Astrid,” he said, his smile broadening. “That would be great.”  
  
Okay. That seemed to go well.  
  
Now I just had to spend a few minutes alone with someone who could not only break me like a twig, but who also had the authority to discipline the shit out of me if he wanted, without saying or doing something to piss him off.  
  
Fuck, I really didn’t think this through, did I?  
  
But he seemed to be in a good mood right now, and he did seem pleased by my offer of help. So… I thought I’d made a good start.  
  
All I had to do was not fuck this up.  
  
(I really hoped I didn’t fuck this up.)

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I strode confidently through the Hub with a tray full of cake slices, feeling immensely pleased with myself. Maybe a little too pleased. After all, managing not to commit any disciplinary offences over the course of spending a few minutes with my commanding officer while off-duty wasn’t exactly all that huge an achievement in the grand scheme of things, but it really fucking felt like it. I’d even managed to make conversation that hadn’t felt too overwhelmingly awkward. Admittedly, said conversation had generally focused on work stuff — specifically, the patrol he and Shadow Stalker had just finished, and my stint shadowing Clockblocker on console duty — but it totally counted. And, to cap it all off, I was about to have another slice of Fucking Awesome Cake.  
  
All in all, I was feeling pretty damn good right now.  
  
And then I got close enough to overhear the current topic of conversation.  
  
“…have seen her face,” Dennis was crowing, the amount of smugness in his voice practically a palpable force. “She was absolutely furious. And that was before she even looked at herself in the mirror.” As the asshole continued to describe my abject humiliation to Triumph in excruciating detail, I instinctively quieted my steps, moving to stand directly behind him.  
  
Dean saw me pretty much right away, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly schooled his features into neutrality. Missy was the next to notice me, or so I assumed, from the way she eyed Dean with a faint air of puzzlement and then flicked her gaze in my direction. Thanks to Triumph’s helmet, I couldn’t tell whether he’d spotted me or not, but that proved irrelevant as Chris happened to look over in my direction and promptly choked, his face going red.  
  
“…and she’s standing right behind me, isn’t she?” Dennis finished, his voice taking on a resigned note. He turned to meet my eyes, seeming a little disconcerted to see me smiling broadly at him.  
  
Honestly, smiling was the absolute last thing I felt like doing right now, but I figured he was likely expecting a glower. And one of the best ways to fuck with someone was to make sure not to give the the reaction they expected.  
  
“Oh, do go on, Dennis,” I said brightly, my voice saccharine sweet. “Don’t stop on my account.”  
  
He studied me for a moment, and then smirked.  
  
“I’m not sure I can really do it justice with mere words,” he said, and I was pretty sure my smile went somewhat brittle around the edges as I fought to stop it from slipping. “A picture, on the other hand…”  
  
“I wasn’t masked when you took my photo without permission,” I said, just a little bit of an edge creeping into my voice. “So someone not as easy going as myself might take what you just said as a threat.”  
  
I mean, it was a threat, but I was reasonably sure he didn’t actually mean it the way I’d just implied. He probably only intended to hold the prospect of more humiliation over my head. Given that Triumph and I were technically on the same side, he probably didn’t even think of it as threatening to unmask me against my will.  
  
Probably.  
  
Belatedly, I realised I should probably start handing out the cake slices I was carrying, so I made my way around the little group, starting with Triumph, who accepted his piece with a murmured thanks.  
  
“What?” Dennis said, his smile slipping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t do that.”  
  
“He wouldn’t,” Chris assured me, his voice and expression earnest. “Really. None of us would.”  
  
“Then maybe he should be more careful what he says,” I murmured, reflecting that I would’ve been more reassured by Chris’ sincerity if Dean hadn’t already blabbed way too much about my circumstances to his girlfriend. Sure, it had worked out okay in the end, but it did make me wonder if any of the rest of them had similar problems with keeping their damn mouths shut. And Dennis struck me as a prime candidate for that category.  
  
“Way to sap the fun right out of this,” the asshole himself said, heaving a theatrical sigh and giving me a slightly baleful look.  
  
I dialled my smile back up. “Then my work here is done,” I practically trilled, my equilibrium restored by his apparent discombobulation. (I felt a pulse of relief at the apparent sincerity of his protest.)  
  
Dennis started to say something else, but then broke off, his expression filling with indignation as I settled myself on a seat with the last slice of cake, setting the now-empty tray down on the coffee table.  
  
“Hey, where’s my cake?” he demanded.  
  
“I’m trying to decide if you deserve any,” came Carlos’ voice, unexpectedly. I glanced over in his direction, a little surprised to find him giving me a conspiratorial grin. The two plates he was holding were supposed to be his and mine, but, well, Dennis had pissed me off enough that I hadn’t been able to help myself. “What do you think, Astrid?” Carlos continued, before I could second-guess my actions too much. “Should we just split the extra piece between us?”  
  
Did he mean that? Was he seriously letting me decide whether or not Dennis got a slice of cake?  
  
(Unease prickled across my skin and shivered its way down my spine. I shoved the sensation away as best as I could.)  
  
“Hmm,” I murmured, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression. “That’s a very good question.”  
  
I was half-expecting Dennis to object, or to plead his case, but instead he just folded his arms and quirked an eyebrow at me, his expression challenging. The glint in his eyes told me that he wasn’t going to beg, although I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that he also wasn’t going to let this go.  
  
Oh, for fuck’s sake!  
  
Sometimes I thought the thing that pissed me off the most about this asshole was that it was sometimes surprisingly hard to stay mad at him.  
  
“Well?” Carlos asked, as the impromptu staring contest probably went on just a touch too long.  
  
I shrugged theatrically.  
  
“We might as well let him have it,” I drawled. “He’ll only complain otherwise, and I sure as shit don’t want to listen to him whine for the rest of the evening.”  
  
“I knew you liked me, Princess,” Dennis smirked, accepting the cake from Carlos like it was his rightful due. Carlos just rolled his eyes and took a seat next to Triumph, apparently forbearing to comment.  
  
Just about managing not to twitch at the nickname, I narrowed my eyes at Dennis.  
  
“Don’t push your luck,” I told him.  
  
“I see Dennis is making friends in his usual inimitable fashion,” Triumph said, laughing a little.  
  
I had to fight not to tense as it suddenly hit me that I was probably making a fucking terrible impression on the first Protectorate member I’d ever met. For that matter, what the fuck had possessed me to behave so cavalierly with Carlos? I mean, sure, he didn’t seem to mind now, but then I’d already figured that his self control must have been pretty damn impressive for him to keep his temper around some of his more annoying subordinates (largely Dennis and Hess). So maybe he was just storing it all up for when he finally got around to having words with me in private.  
  
I wondered if I should apologise. Before I could decide, though, Triumph turned his attention to me.  
  
“If it’s any consolation,” he said. “You are by no means the first Ward that Dennis has pulled the whole freeze and dress up trick on, and I doubt you’ll be the last.” It sounded like he was smiling, as he added: “Think of it as a rite of passage.”  
  
“It’s true,” Chris piped up quickly. “You should see the different costumes he’s shoved on me since I joined.” He glanced around at the others. “Remember the whole Wizard of Oz thing he did? I was the Tin Man…”  
  
“I was a munchkin,” Missy muttered, giving Dennis a truly filthy look.  
  
“Triumph was the Cowardly Lion,” Chris continued. “And Carlos was, um…”  
  
“The Scarecrow,” Carlos sighed, shooting Dennis an irritated look.  
  
“Good times,” Dennis said, smirking. “And thanks for reminding me I never did get Dean for that sequence. I’ll have to put something special together for him to make up for the neglect.”  
  
“Thanks.” Dean’s tone was drier than a desert, his sarcasm almost a palpable force.  
  
“And, now I’ve found my Dorothy,” Dennis continued as if Dean hadn’t spoken, smirking at me.  
  
I rolled my eyes, but didn’t think it worth informing him that no way in hell was I going to let my guard down enough to let him do that to me a second time. Or, rather, a third.  
  
“Are you planning on including Sophia in this endeavour?” some kind of morbid curiosity compelled me to ask.  
  
Dennis shook his head violently. “No way,” he said. “Believe it or not, I do actually have some survival instincts, and every single one of then is screaming ‘Noooooooo’ at the very idea.”  
  
Well, that was damned annoying. He was sufficiently intimidated by Hess not to fuck with her, but he was perfectly happy to fuck with me? What did a girl have to do to get some goddamned respect around here?  
  
(‘If you want respect, girl, you have to fucking earn it. If you don’t force every other motherfucker in the room to take you seriously as a threat right from the start, they’re just going to walk all over you.’)  
  
(But I didn’t… I didn’t want him to be afraid of me. I didn’t want it to be like it was at school, where people kept their distance from the psycho bitch because they knew I’d fuck them up if they tried anything. He was part of my… my team. We were on the same side.)  
  
(And even if there was another way, like I’d thought after talking to Captain Cavendish — a thought my mind kept coming back to again and again; worrying at it like a tongue poking at a loose tooth — I didn’t have the first fucking clue where to start.)  
  
Maybe I’d just have to make sure that my return volley in the prank war was suitably… memorable.  
  
“You know,” Triumph said, thankfully pulling me out of my head and back into the room. “Sometimes I’m really glad I’ve moved up to the Protectorate.” He didn’t seem to be addressing his words to anyone in particular.  
  
“You still have to put up with Assault,” Dean said, smiling wryly.  
  
“True,” Triumph conceded, nodding. “But at least Battery’s there to keep him in line.” I made a mental note of that. Apparently there was some truth to the rumours that was some kind of connection between Assault and Battery. Lance was convinced they were fucking, as was a sizeable fraction of the part of the internet that gave a shit about the Brockton Bay cape scene. I was reserving judgement pending more information. Huh. I guessed I might well have the chance to gather that information now. “So, Astrid,” Triumph said, drawing my attention. “Misbehaving teammates aside, how are you finding being a Ward so far?”  
  
I blinked at him for a moment, trying to get my thoughts in order.  
  
“It’s interesting,” I said cautiously, wondering what kind of answer he was hoping for. “There’s certainly a lot to learn.”  
  
“I remember,” he said, and I couldn’t quite interpret his tone of voice. “If it’s anything like it was for me, I bet it feels like it’s never going to end, right?” I nodded cautiously, wondering if the question was some kind of trap. “The worst of it will be over soon, though,” he continued. “And don’t forget that that everyone here has all been through the same thing. I’m sure they’ll be willing and able to help you out if you need it. Right, guys?”  
  
There was a general chorus of assent to that. Even Dennis nodded his head.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as awkward as I felt. (I wasn’t sure if I was comforted by the reminder I wasn’t alone in this, or irritated at the implication that I couldn’t handle the workload without help, but I shoved the dilemma to the back of my mind.)  
  
“Oh shit!” Chris suddenly blurted out. “I forgot. I never gave you that syllabus and reading list you asked for. I did remember to get it, though, and I have it here somewhere. Maybe in my bag?”  
  
I had been wondering if I was going to have to gently prod him about it again.  
  
“You don’t have to look for it right now this second,” I said as he started to get to his feet. I mean, I kind of wanted him to, just so I finally had it, but it didn’t seem fair to make him leave his slice of cake unfinished. I wasn’t that much of a bitch. I smiled at him. “I’ll remind you later, don’t worry. Thanks, Chris.”  
  
“Uh, you’re welcome,” he said, flushing a little as he returned my smile.  
  
“Have you heard anything about when you’re going to be starting at your new school yet?” Missy asked curiously.  
  
I nodded.  
  
“I start on Monday,” I said, trying to quiet the flutter of apprehension in my stomach with another bite of cake. Apparently what passed for the Winslow bureaucracy could get their assess in gear when someone forced the issue. I wondered how hard the PRT had had to lean on CPS to make them prod Winslow into giving up my records. And Lance’s, for that matter. I was assuming that it was Winslow, rather than Arcadia, that was the rate-limiting part of the transfer process, but I didn’t think the assumption was at all unfair.  
  
“I bet you’re pleased about that,” Missy observed.  
  
“Yeah,” I agreed, and I was, on balance. I mean, I really didn’t want to miss any more school. But, even so…  
  
“It must be hard, transferring to a new school. Especially part way through the academic year.” Triumph sounded sympathetic. I had a panicked moment wondering if he had some kind of secret thinker power that let him pick up on what was going through my head, but then I shoved the thought away as being overly paranoid.  
  
I shrugged. “It isn’t the first time,” I said, lightly, like my gut wasn’t still twisting with worry about being the fucking new girl all over again. “My family’s moved around quite a bit because of my dad’s work.” Technically true. “So I’ve been to a few different schools over the years.” I should probably have left it there, but apparently I was still having trouble knowing when to shut the fuck up, because I found myself adding: “I just hope it doesn’t take me too long to get up to speed.”  
  
“I’m sure it won’t,” Dean put in, his tone confident and his smile reassuring. “I’ve seen how hard you work.”  
  
“Just remember to take a break once in a while,” Carlos said, and I only just managed to stop myself from asking if that was an order. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know the answer.  
  
Fortunately, I was saved from having to respond by Triumph, who muttered something that sounded an awful lot like: “Oh, the hell with it,” and abruptly pulled his helmet off, revealing slightly tousled sandy-brown hair and a rueful grin. “While I can, technically, eat with my helmet on, it’s a bit of a pain in the ass,” he explained, addressing his words to me. “So please, call me Rory.” I stared at him, startled by the fact that he’d just unmasked to me so… so casually. A moment later, almost as an afterthought, he added: “Ah, don’t feel you need to reciprocate, though. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you.” And then, with what looked like a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he said: “I just don’t want anything to get between me and that fucking awesome cake.”  
  
The unexpectedness of his words — my own words — startled a laugh out of me.  
  
“I can certainly understand that,” I said, grinning at him. I took a deep breath and, before I could change my mind, pulled off my own mask. (Sure, he said there was no pressure, but I wasn’t sure I really believed that. It was fine though. I’d already decided to follow his lead, so I’d known this was a possibility. Anyway, it wasn’t like I was unmasking to a civilian, and we were on the same side now. Technically.) “Well, hi, Rory,” I said, because it kind of felt like I should say something. “And, uh, you already know my name.”  
  
“Astrid’s a pretty name,” he said, making me blink stupidly at him with confusion. “Unusual, too. I’m not sure I know any other Astrids.”  
  
“My mom chose it,” I blurted out, and then immediately regretted it. The last fucking thing I wanted was to be fielding questions about **her**. I racked my brains for a quick change of subject, but the only thing I came up with was: “But don’t let me keep you from your cake.”  
  
I quickly shovelled a forkful of my own cake in my mouth, thus ensuring that I couldn’t babble any further. Or answer any awkward questions about my mother. Luckily, Rory seemed happy enough to take the hint. Or maybe he really did just want to dig into the cake, which was every bit as good as I remembered. From the various appreciative murmurings, everyone else felt the same.  
  
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Carlos said, apropos of nothing. “Emilio’s going out of town for a few weeks, so that means…”  
  
“No more cakes?” Chris asked, sounding mournful.  
  
“Not until he gets back, I’m afraid,” Carlos confirmed. “So, you’d better make the most of this one, is what I’m saying.”  
  
Rory raised his eyebrows. “Glad I got here when I did, then,” he said, grinning. “There might be a bit of a stampede when news of the upcoming dearth gets around.”  
  
That prompted a round of reminiscing about particular favourite cakes past. And reminded me of a question I’d been thinking of asking.  
  
“Uh, Carlos?” I said, when there was a break in the conversation and he didn’t have his mouth full of cake. (It still felt weird as fuck not calling him Sir, no matter how many times I tried to remind myself that we were off-duty and at-ease. I tried to reassure myself with the fact that, for some strange reason, it seemed to make him happy.)  
  
“Yeah?” he said, giving me an encouraging smile.  
  
“Do you think Emilio would be willing to share the recipe for this? Or any of his other cakes, for that matter?”  
  
“I can ask him,” Carlos said, raising his eyebrows a little. “I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes, but he’s more of an… improvisational baker, I think he called it. And I think he makes things a slightly different way each time. So I don’t know how many of his recipes he actually has all the details written out for.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, a little discouraged. “Well, I don’t want to put him to any trouble.”  
  
“He won’t mind,” Carlos assured me. “If anything, I think he’ll be flattered.”  
  
I nodded and ate more cake.  
  
“So, you like baking?” Rory asked.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, and then amended my answer to: “Well, cooking generally.”  
  
“Astrid’s a really good cook!” Chris suddenly blurted out, proving that I wasn’t the only one who suffered from that particular verbal tic. “She made this mac and cheese last week that was probably the best I’d ever tasted.”  
  
“Uh, thanks, Chris,” I said, both pleased and embarrassed by his enthusiastic praise. “But you don’t need to exaggerate.” It was nice to be appreciated, but I was pretty sure he was just falling prey to his occasional tendency to indulge in hyperbole.  
  
“I’m not exaggerating,” he said, smiling shyly at me. “It was really good.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, again, hypocritically amused at the way Chris’ cheeks went a little pink as he presumably realised he’d been going a little bit overboard with his glowing review. From the heat in my own traitorous cheeks, though, he wasn’t the only one blushing right now. I idly wondered which one of us had gone reddest in the face.  
  
From the way Dennis was looking between the two of us and smirking, I had a sneaking suspicion that he might have been wondering the same thing. Whatever smartass comments might have been running through his head, though, he mercifully, shockingly, kept them to himself. Truly, it was a day for miracles.  
  
“Speaking of great meals,” Dean said suddenly, leaning forward a little in his seat. “Do you guys remember the last picnic we had out on the Rig?”  
  
“The one just before we moved over here, you mean?” Carlos asked, grinning. “How could I forget?”  
  
“I’m still amazed you didn’t get sick from that abomination of a sandwich,” Triumph said, shaking his head.  
  
“The beauty of adaptive biology,” Carlos said, his grin broadening. It made him seem… younger, somehow. (It seemed… weird, seeing him this… at ease. This relaxed. Up until now, he’d always seemed kind of tense whenever I’d seen him.)  
  
“What did you put on it in the end?” Chris asked, frowning. “I know you used chocolate fudge brownie for the ‘bread,’ and I think I remember some kind of… fish?”  
  
“Anchovies,” Missy said, pulling a face.  
  
“I thought they were sardines,” Dennis said.  
  
“I have a feeling there might have been both,” Rory mused. In a more decisive tone, he added: “And there were definitely pickles.”  
  
I listened with a growing mixture of horror and fascination as they listed ever more improbable sandwich components.  
  
“But why would you do that?” I burst out eventually, unable to keep silent any more. “That’s not a sandwich, it’s a… a fucking food crime! It sounds absolutely disgusting! What the fuck were you thinking?”  
  
That was the point at which my mind caught up with my mouth and I realised that I was practically yelling at my team leader. That I was criticising him. And I was doing not just in front of the other Wards, but in the presence of **his** former commander. A member of the fucking Protectorate; someone who was technically superior to all of us.  
  
Oh, I was so fucked.  
  
But before I could really start figuring out precisely how fucked I was, Carlos just… grinned at me.  
  
“Dennis dared me to do it,” he said simply, shrugging.  
  
“And believe me, I regretted it,” Dennis said, grimacing. “You may not have gotten sick, but I certainly felt like upchucking when I saw you actually eat the damn thing.”  
  
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you dared him to do it, then,” Rory said, laughing. “You know what Carlos is like.” He gave Carlos a light shove. “He never can say no to any kind of physical challenge.”  
  
“I’m not that bad,” Carlos protested, but he might have seemed more convincing if he hadn’t been grinning from ear to ear. He shoved Rory back, just as lightly.  
  
I watched the pair of them warily, but they still seemed relaxed; not as if they were preparing for real violence. Even so, I still felt on edge, my nerves jangling from the realisation that I’d potentially (probably) just committed a discipline-worthy offence. I tried to console myself with the fact that I hadn’t really said anything worse than, say, Dennis, but it didn’t really help. Just because he could apparently get away with blatant and egregious disrespect didn’t necessarily mean I could.  
  
Still, there was no point in worrying about it. If I had crossed a line then, sooner or later, one way or another, Carlos would let me know about it. It was that fucking simple.  
  
“You are less fun these days, it’s true,” Dennis said in a mournful tone.  
  
“You take that back,” Carlos said indignantly. “I’m still fun. You’re just saying that because I’m now the one who has to chase you up when you get behind on your paperwork.”  
  
“Exactly,” Dennis retorted, with the air of one who’d just had his point proven for him. “You used to be cool, man, but now you are The Man. Just another cog in the machine; the foot in the boot stamping on the face of humanity.”  
  
Carlos rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Dennis,” he sighed. I had the sense that this was not the first time they’d had this conversation. He turned his attention to me then, and I had to squash another stupid urge to twitch. “I can’t say the sandwich actually tasted good,” he said, a rueful smile on his face. “And I certainly wouldn’t recommend it.”  
  
I grimaced before I could stop myself.  
  
“I wasn’t particularly planning on trying to recreate it,” I said, watching carefully for any sign that he might be annoyed with me. He didn’t seem pissed off, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. “It would be a waste of good food,” I added.  
  
“You really do have strong feelings about food, don’t you?” Dennis observed, laughing.  
  
I glowered at him, but I was too rattled to really put my heart into it.  
  
“Food’s important,” I said flatly.  
  
“I remember you practically growling at me when I joked about taking your sandwich,” he said, grinning. “What, were you sent to bed without supper one too many times?”  
  
“Something like that,” I snapped, suddenly completely out of patience for his shit, and far too distracted by worry to really think about what I was saying. “And if you’d ever actually gone hungry, then you wouldn’t fucking joke about it, asshole. Because I can tell you for nothing that I’d rather be beaten than starved, and that’s a fucking fact.”  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
I’d… said that out loud.  
  
Shit, shit, shit!  
  
What the flying fuck had I been thinking?  
  
Well, whatever the fuck it had been, maybe I should have sat and thought about it a damn sight longer before opening my stupid mouth and making such a complete and utter fool of myself.  
  
Oh God. Now they were all looking at me.  
  
“Hypothetically,” I muttered, like that figleaf was going to convince anyone; like it was going to dissipate the tension clustering like cobwebs in the air. Like there hadn’t been far too long a pause to make that even halfway believable. It felt like my face was on fire right now. Fuck, I needed to get out of here. I just… I needed a moment to pull myself back together. But what could I do? I couldn’t exactly just flee. I needed an excuse.  
  
“I think I’m going to make myself some tea,” Dean said abruptly, getting to his feet. “Do any of you want anything?”  
  
There was a general chorus of requests. I took advantage of the fact that I wasn’t in the fucking spotlight any more to try to get my expression under control, silently cursing myself with a steady stream of profanity. I couldn’t do anything about the blush that felt like it went all the way from my hairline to my chest, but worrying about that would only make it worse.  
  
I was peripherally aware of Dean turning in my direction, but before I could so much as open my mouth, he caught my eye and casually, as if he wasn’t addressing himself to anyone in particular, said:  
  
“Actually, I’m not sure I can manage all those by myself. Does someone mind giving me a hand?”  
  
I could’ve kissed him. Well, hugged him. High-fived him, at least. Maybe a fist-bump? Sure, it wasn’t the slightest bit subtle, and I maybe could’ve done without the confirmation that I was doing a truly shit job of controlling my stupid face right now, but I really wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.  
  
“I’ll help you,” I said, all-but leaping to my feet. “I could do with a coffee, anyway.”  
  
Without another word, I started gathering up the now-empty plates, pretending I didn’t see the side-long glances the others kept casting my way as I stacked them on the tray Dean held out.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t have OCD?” Dennis asked lightly, and I never thought I would say this, but I was actually glad that of the asshole remark.  
  
“No, Dennis, you’re just a slob,” I said, relieved beyond measure that my voice actually sounded normal. Glancing at the group as a whole, I said: “We’ll be back shortly with those drinks.”  
  
And on that note, I turned on my heel and set a brisk pace for the kitchen, Dean following along behind.  
  
It was all I could do not to run.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dean said quietly. It was the first thing he’d said since we’d entered the kitchen that hadn’t had to do with making drinks.  
  
It was exactly what I’d been dreading.  
  
I sighed softly, the sound thankfully camouflaged by the clink of ice cubes as I dropped them into what would be Chris’ glass.  
  
“About the fact that I managed to stick both feet in my mouth and make a complete fool of myself in front of God and everybody?” I asked, my words edged with bitterness. “What’s to talk about?”  
  
The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if Dean had actually dropped the subject, but then he spoke again.  
  
“That’s not a no,” he said quietly.  
  
I glanced in his direction, but he was looking away from me, opening a box of tea bags. I sighed again, retrieving the Dr Pepper and pouring it into the glass, careful not to let it fizz up too much.  
  
“I’m not sure it’s really worth talking about,” I muttered, hating the way my voice quavered, making me sound uncertain. Lost. Weak.  
  
“That’s still not a no,” Dean observed. This time when I glanced up, he was facing me, a small, wry smile on his lips. His smile widened slightly as our gazes met, and he added: “You haven’t even told me to go fuck myself yet.”  
  
I snorted, an unwilling smile tugging at my own lips, even though, half a second ago, the last fucking thing I’d felt like doing was smiling.  
  
“You can be a real snarky bastard sometimes, Dean, you know that?”  
  
“So I’ve been told,” he said dryly, but then his expression sobered. “I’m not trying to push,” he continued, “and if I’m out of line here, just tell me and I’ll back off. But if you do feel the need to vent, well…” He shrugged, the movement slow and easy. “I’m here, and I’m willing to listen. But it’s up to you.”  
  
I thought about it for a moment, and then sighed for a third time. (I wondered if whatever made Carlos sigh so much was catching.)  
  
“I just wish I hadn’t said anything,” I said, my frustration leaking into my voice as I put the Dr Pepper back in the cupboard and shut the door with perhaps just a little more force than strictly necessary. “I just got mad because Dennis was talking shit about stuff he didn’t have the first clue about, and… and it’s not fucking **funny** , and…” I made myself stop and take a breath; to uncurl my hands and reform my metal back into innocuous jewellery. Deliberately not looking in Dean’s direction, I retrieved the orange juice from the fridge and poured some of it into another glass for Missy. “And I should have just let it go,” I continued, bringing my voice back under control. “Because it made everything really fucking awkward. And the last thing I need is more fucking pity.” I took another breath. “Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t apologise,” Dean said, the sudden steel in his voice startling me into meeting his gaze. He smiled then, his voice softening as he continued: “I did tell you you could vent. I may be snarky on occasion, but I like to think I’m not a hypocrite.”  
  
“Duly noted,” I muttered, not knowing what else to say.  
  
“Good,” he said, nodding once, before turning his attention back to the hot drinks. “You’re not wrong, though,” he continued. “It was a little awkward.”  
  
“Is that supposed to help?” I asked, torn between bemusement, amusement and irritation.  
  
“Would you rather I lied?” he retorted. I shot him a glare over my shoulder, and he flashed me a grin. “I didn’t think so,” he said, with what would have been ridiculous levels of overconfidence if he hadn’t been completely and utterly right. His expression became serious again. “But that’s not your fault, Astrid. No reasonable person would blame you for saying the first thing that comes to mind when someone prods you in a sore spot.”  
  
“I blame me,” I said tightly.  
  
Control, dammit. Where the fuck was mine these days?  
  
“Like I said,” Dean continued smoothly, as if I hadn’t spoken. “No reasonable person.” He took a breath. “If it’s any consolation, I strongly doubt Dennis had any clue that he was prodding at a sore spot until you responded.”  
  
“I know that,” I growled. “And if I’d just kept my big mouth shut, he wouldn’t have been any the wiser. None of you would.”  
  
“Is it really such a bad thing that you didn’t?” he asked gently.  
  
I gave him a look of disbelief.  
  
“Is it a bad thing to show weakness? You bet your fucking ass it is.”  
  
Dean was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I’d finally managed to convince him that trying to reassure me was a lost cause. Eventually, though, he turned to face me.  
  
“No one thinks you’re weak, Astrid,” he said, and I couldn’t help thinking to myself that he really was a fucking good liar. His gaze sharpened, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew exactly what was going through my mind. “Really,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “And certainly not for this.” I really wanted to believe him, but I just didn’t see how that could possibly be true. He gave me a searching look, and then sighed, his expression softening a little. “In any case,” he said, in a lighter tone, “there’s something you need to bear in mind.”  
  
“What’s that, oh wise sage?” I said, with just a soupçon of my own sarcasm.  
  
Dean shrugged. “Everyone has their own shit to deal with,” he said, simply. “And just because you can’t stop thinking about how embarrassed you are — needlessly, mind you — that doesn’t mean anyone else is.” He grinned. “By the time we get back in there, they’ll be talking about something completely different. Trust me.”  
  
When he put it that way… I guessed I was being a little self-centred. I mean, I still wished I hadn’t said anything, but… maybe it wasn’t the end of the world? And at least Dennis probably wouldn’t make jokes about being sent to bed without supper around me in future. So, that was a plus.  
  
I was a little startled to realise I actually did feel better. Huh. Who would’ve thought? I studied Dean for a moment, and nodded.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, even managing a small smile.  
  
“I live to serve,” he said guilelessly. I rolled my eyes at him and he flashed me a shit-eating grin that was almost worthy of being on Dennis’ face. I shook my head, my own smile widening against my will and, having finished with the cold drinks, turned my attention to helping Dean with the hot beverages. We worked side by side in what felt like companionable silence. A few moments later, though, Dean spoke up again. “Astrid?”  
  
“Yeah?” I replied absently, much of my attention on wondering if I could freeze liquids with my power. At the very least, I reckoned I might be able to raise the freezing point by forging nucleation sites in the parts I could affect. Of course, if it did work, I’d have to be careful not to freeze myself into the solidifying liquid, but…  
  
“There’s something I should tell you,” he said, the seriousness of his voice cutting right through my distraction. I turned to look at him, but he was facing away from me, spooning sugar into a mug.  
  
“What is it?” I asked, concerned.  
  
My concern deepened when he didn’t answer right away, but before I could ask if he was okay, he finished with the sugar and turned around, a smile on his face.  
  
“Victoria asked me to pass on a message,” he said.  
  
“Oh?” I replied, trying vainly not to think of the moment I’d first set eyes on her. That aura really was something.  
  
“She wanted me to tell you that she’ll make sure to keep a seat at her lunch table for you when you start at Arcadia.”  
  
“She doesn’t have to do that,” I said, ignoring the way my pulse picked up, just a little. My reaction was ridiculous, I told myself crossly. She was just being nice, that was all. It didn’t mean she actually liked me. (It didn’t mean that she saw me as anything more than a fucking pity project.) It certainly didn’t mean she’d really meant it when she’d called me her friend. “But I do appreciate it,” I added, worried that Dean would think I was being rude.  
  
“She’s not doing it out of obligation,” Dean said, his smile broadening. “She likes you.”  
  
“She does?” I said stupidly, my lips deciding to curve into a smile without any input from me.  
  
“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “But if you’re worried about blowing your cover, she makes a point of getting to know as many of the new transfers as she can, so that won’t be a problem.”  
  
I was shocked to realise that I hadn’t even thought of that, even though it should’ve been one of the first thing that came to mind.  
  
Goddamn it. I’d better not be losing my fucking edge. Now, more than ever, I really couldn’t afford to go soft.  
  
“That’s good to know,” I said. “Thanks for passing on the message.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dean replied. His grin turned wry. “Victoria wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I forgot. Is it alright if I tell her that you’re starting on Monday?”  
  
“Sure,” I said, before I could think better of it.  
  
“Thanks,” he said. He glanced over the drinks. “Okay, I think we’re just about done here, but before we go back to the others, I think there’s something you should see.” He pulled out his phone and started tapping away at it.  
  
“Okay…” I said, confused and curious.  
  
“Here,” he said, holding out his phone. I leaned in to take a look, my eyebrows shooting up when I realised what I was looking at.  
  
“Why are you showing me a photo of some strange girl?” I asked, completely confused. She was kind of… not pretty, exactly, but kind of cute, with freckles and a sly smile that seemed weirdly familiar. “For that matter, why do you have a photo of a scantily clad girl on your phone?” I was maybe exaggerating the case just a little bit. I mean, her top was decent enough, but the skirt she was barely dressed in was very short indeed. Still, she certainly had the legs for it. “And does your girlfriend know?”  
  
If Victoria was the jealous type, then Dean must have really liked living dangerously. Even if they’d been broken up when this girl had posed for the photo — and she was definitely posing — I couldn’t imagine a world in which Victoria would’ve been happy to see something like this on her boyfriend’s phone.  
  
“Look again,” Dean said, somewhat mystifyingly, his eyes glinting with amusement.  
  
Frowning, I took another look, wondering what the fuck I was supposed to be looking for. There was still that nagging sense of familiarity, but I couldn’t quite place it. Wait a minute…  
  
“Was this taken in the Hub?” I wondered aloud, and then froze as something clicked into place. “No. Fucking. Way,” I breathed, my eyes flying wide open. “That can’t be…” I closed my eyes for a moment, and opened them again, but the picture was still exactly the fucking same. “That’s Dennis?!”  
  
“The one and only,” Dean confirmed.  
  
I stared at the photo for a few moments more before dragging my eyes away from it to stare at Dean.  
  
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked plaintively. Because now there was no fucking way I was going to be able to look at Dennis without seeing that image of him in an indecently short skirt. And, of course, going bright fucking scarlet.  
  
Dean’s eyes were sparkling with what I resentfully thought was a completely inappropriate level of mirth.  
  
“Because I thought you might want to know that he wasn’t deliberately trying to choose the most unflattering colours possible for your pretty princess makeover,” he said. “He’s just kind of colour blind when it comes to make-up. I mean, he can’t even tell what works on his own complexion, let alone anyone else’s.”  
  
I continued to stare. I thought my mouth might have been gaping slightly.  
  
“Huh?” I said, eloquently.  
  
“I’ve picked up a few things from the photography,” Dean said modestly. “And from spending time with Victoria, of course. She’s something of an expert, as you might have realised from Saturday.”  
  
I resisted the urge to shake my head in an attempt to clear it.  
  
“Did Dennis lose a bet?” I asked, because that was the only thing I could think of that even made a lick of sense. I couldn’t think of another reason why he would have dressed up like a… like **that**.  
  
“No,” Dean said, much to my surprise. “His eye for colour really is that bad.” He glanced at his phone, shook his head sorrowfully and then, much to my immense relief, put it back in his pocket.  
  
If only out of sight was out of mind.  
  
“Oh,” I said faintly, feeling really fucking uncomfortable for some reason.  
  
This… It must have been a bet. Or maybe a dare or something. Dennis had mentioned playing Truth or Dare, after all. Yeah, that made sense. I mean, I couldn’t believe that he’d actually gone through with that but, well, I guessed the amusement of discombobulating everyone else probably overcame whatever rudimentary feelings of self-consciousness he might have possessed. If he had any at all, which I somehow seriously doubted.  
  
I was shocked he’d actually allowed Dean to photograph him, though.  
  
(Even if he did, apparently, have the legs to pull off a miniskirt.)  
  
(Damn.)  
  
And… now I was remembering the photograph again.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I needed to think of something else. Fast.  
  
Dean gave me an odd look but, thankfully, the only thing he said was: “We’d better take these drinks out before the others wonder where we’ve got to.”  
  
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do that.”  
  
On the plus side, I mused, as we made our way back out to the Hub: at least I wasn’t worrying about being pitied any more.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“So, Rory, what really happened with Purity yesterday?” Chris’ question dragged me out of thoughts I was trying really fucking hard not to dwell on, and I seized on the distraction like the lifeline it was. Plus, I was interested to know the answer. I’d seen rumours of some kind of encounter between Purity and some Protectorate capes last night, but hard facts seemed to be thin on the ground. I hoped Rory would be able to provide some.  
  
Assuming, of course, that they weren’t classified.  
  
Rory looked pensive for a moment, and then sighed.  
  
“That’s a good question,” he said.  
  
“Were you there?” Dennis asked, his expression serious, even though his eyes alight with lively interest. (I tried vainly, desperately, not to think about that fucking photo again.)  
  
“I was,” Rory confirmed. His lip curled with what looked like disgust. “We didn’t try to engage her, of course. After all, she’s not a priority target.”  
  
He sounded like he was quoting something. Or someone.  
  
“Is the nazi lightbulb still claiming to be an independent?” Carlos asked, his voice practically dripping with contempt.  
  
“You think she’s going to stop singing that tune now?” Dennis asked, shaking his head. “After all this time?”  
  
“It isn’t as though she’s ever denounced her so-called former friends publicly,” Carlos muttered. He looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Or have you heard something I haven’t?”  
  
I sat up a little straighter in my chair, eager to be of use to my superior.  
  
“She did leave the Empire,” I said, confidently, addressing my words to Carlos. “Just over a year and a half ago.” Right around when Dad had decided the time was right for us to return to to Brockton Bay, in fact. I wondered, not for the first time, if the timing of those events had been a coincidence. “But I doubt it was because she suddenly stopped being a nazi bitch.” I couldn’t have kept the sneer from my lips if I’d wanted to. “From what I heard, it had more to do with the fact that Kaiser couldn’t keep it in his pants.” My confidence wavering just a little, I frowned and added: “Of course, it is possible it’s some kind of ploy. Kaiser is supposed to be a tricksy motherfucker, after all. But I don’t know what the point of it would be, especially on this kind of time scale. A year and a half is a fuck of a long time for Kaiser to do without his biggest gun.”  
  
Dad hadn’t been able to figure out a reason why Kaiser and Purity would’ve faked a break up in both their cape and civilian personas, but he wouldn’t put anything past ‘that shiny metal shit-can’ Kaiser.  
  
As always, thinking about Kayden made me feel really fucking conflicted. On the one hand, she was a fucking nazi. And, not only had she let Kaiser fuck her, she’d also let him get her pregnant. If that didn’t paint a pretty piss-poor picture of her character, then I sure as shit didn’t know what did. But…  
  
But she’d been friends with Mom.  
  
Good friends, too, from the details Dad had let slip.  
  
I had a picture of the two of them, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, laughing into the camera. Well, I’d had it, anyway, but I’d left it behind when I ran, and it was likely just a pile of ashes, now. (I tried to pretend I didn’t feel a pang at that. It was stupid. The photo was just a… a thing. Things didn’t matter. There was no fucking point getting attached to mere things.) In any case, Kayden had looked like such a mousy little thing next to Mom; almost… frumpy. Then again, that was Mom for you; the sheer presence of the woman almost a tangible thing even in a photograph. Anyone would have faded into the background next to her. Larger than life, Dad had called her.  
  
I could believe it.  
  
But Kayden hadn’t looked liked she’d minded being the plain best friend. She’d just looked… happy. Both of them had. They’d seemed… comfortable with each other, in a way I might have envied if I hadn’t made a deliberate choice to walk a more solitary path. I thought they’d been around my age when the photo was taken. In high school, certainly. I’d identified the uniforms they were wearing as belonging to Clarendon. Kayden’s was neatly pressed, her skirt regulation length, her tie perfectly straight and her blouse buttons done all the way up. Mom’s, though…  
  
There was a book series I’d read, once upon a time, about a girl with the unlikely name of Marmalade Atkins. You could call Marmalade a rebel, but that would have been like calling Kaiser a little bit unpleasant. Anyway, the point was, the cover photo on the first book had her in a school uniform. As you might have guessed, her blouse was untucked, her tie askew and her skirt hiked way up, and she stared into the camera an expression that was pure ‘fuck the world.’  
  
That was Mom, in that photo. I mean, like I’d said, she was smiling, rather than scowling, but there was a glint in her eyes; something challenging and wild. And the one of her hands that was visible was in visible in the shot had a pattern of scrapes and split knuckles that looked pretty fucking familiar.  
  
Anyway, point was, looking at the pair of them in that photo, they sure as shit didn’t look like the kind of girls you could’ve imagined being friends. And yet, they had been.  
  
So, much though I despised Kayden Russel, or Anders, or whatever the fuck she was calling herself these days, for the choices she’d made, I also kind of… wished I could talk to her. Ask her questions. Find out what she and my mother were to each other, at the very least.  
  
I wanted to talk to the one person I knew of who might’ve actually been able to tell me who Mom had been as a person, rather than the goddess Dad always described.  
  
(Not that I would’ve dared to even hint to him that I thought anything of the sort, of course. Accusing him of having a biased view of my mother… would not have ended well for me. Even if it was true.)  
  
For better or worse — worse, definitely — there was a connection between us and, much though I didn’t want it to, that shit mattered to me.  
  
I mean, Kayden had called her own daughter Aster; a name so close to mine that I couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it was just a fucking coincidence.  
  
Had they… talked about having kids? Discussed baby names? Made plans for future playdates between their hypothetical children?  
  
Unless, of course, the name had been Kaiser’s choice.  
  
And, just like that, there was the thought I’d been trying to avoid, plopping itself down the forefront of my mind like some kind of tumorous polyp. Again and again, I tried to shove it back down, to excise it, to burn it out, and again and again it just came back, forcing me to look at it when all I wanted to do was shut my eyes and turn my face away.  
  
Aster Anders was my fucking cousin, at least by blood. And that was what this whole sorry mess came down to, didn’t it?  
  
Blood.  
  
Blood was why Mom had been ‘destined’ to lead the fucking Empire, after all. And her blood — on her own brother’s hands; in my own veins — was the whole damn reason why Dad had such lofty ambitions for me; why he was so determined that I be the one to cast Kaiser down and take my so-called rightful place at the head of Richard Anders’ fucking Empire.  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I… I couldn’t think about this. Not now. Not when I was surrounded by my teammates and Rory, all of whom were now… staring… at… me.  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
Oh shit, oh God, oh fuck.  
  
Please, by all that’s holy, let me not have spoken any of those thoughts out loud. **Please**.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Carlos said, looking at me like he’d never even seen me before. “You’re saying that Purity… had a… was in a romantic relationship with Kaiser? And that she left E88 because they… broke up?”  
  
His voice had risen slightly in pitch and volume as he spoke, until the last couple of words almost sounded… shrill. And that was a description that I was never planning on letting past my lips. Not ever.  
  
“That’s about the size of it,” I said, nodding.  
  
Jesus, she’d even married the fucker; taken his goddamn name. (My name, came the traitorous whisper in the back of my mind; my real name.) Not that I was planning on sharing that particular piece of information, because it would be really fucking hard to explain how I knew that.  
  
“You sound very sure of that,” Rory said, carefully, and I realised with relief that he just meant what I’d told them about Purity leaving the Empire. And, presumably, about her fucking Kaiser. “How do you know?”  
  
Fortunately this, at least, I had an answer for.  
  
I shrugged, letting my lips curve in a thin smile.  
  
“People gossip. Even fucking nazis. And you’d be surprised what people will let slip if they’re trying to make themselves sound important.” Without intending it, I found my smile twisting into a grimace. “Especially if they think they have a chance of getting in your pants.”  
  
Not even technically a lie. I mean, okay, that wasn’t how I’d found out this particular piece of information, but it was how I’d discovered other things. Even if I’d had to be careful about it after I’d had words with some of Winslow’s resident nazis and aspiring nazis.  
  
Anyway, it wasn’t like I could really talk about my other sources of information. Well, I suppose I could technically talk about Lance if I really wanted to, but I didn’t really want to go there right now. Dad? Don’t make me laugh.  
  
And then there was Theo. Because I never could think of Aster without thinking of my other cousin.  
  
Not that Theo knew he was my window into Kaiser and Purity’s civilian activities, of course. The beauty of the internet. It had been laughably easy to get access to all of his social media profiles. A little bit of online research, a few minutes to set up some fake profiles of my own, a week or two to set up a little history for those accounts, some friend requests to people from his circles, and… voila! I was — or, rather, my sock puppets were — internet friends with Theo Anders.  
  
Shit, someone really needed to teach that boy proper infosec protocols. Then again, there was a whole shit tonne of stuff he’d clearly missed out on learning.  
  
Contempt rose up within me like a wave, the way it always did when I thought about **him**. He wasn’t that much younger than me, really, but you could tell just by looking at him that he was a boy. A child. I’d spent longer than I really cared to acknowledge staring at pictures of the kid, looking for any signs of a resemblance between us, but all I saw in him was weakness. Softness.  
  
Why Kaiser hadn’t knocked that out of him, why he hadn’t tried to toughen his only son up a bit, I did not know.  
  
Then again, the idea of Kaiser being a shitty parent wasn’t exactly a fucking stretch.  
  
Dennis laughed suddenly, startling me out of my thoughts. (Given the direction they were heading in, that was probably a good thing.) He looked at me and shook his head.  
  
“Oh, Astrid,” he said. “You just keep getting more interesting, don’t you?”  
  
“Hardly,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I just like to know my fucking enemies. I don’t think that’s so strange.”  
  
I mean, shit, they researched the other gangs, didn’t they? Why would they be surprised that other people did the same? We had to live here too.  
  
“Your enemies?” Rory asked, his tone neutral and his voice giving nothing away.  
  
I shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Fuck, I’d known I was risking awkward questions, but I just…  
  
I needed to show them that I was useful. That I was an asset, not a liability.  
  
Maybe this was yet another occasion when I should’ve just kept my stupid mouth shut.  
  
“I fucking hate nazis,” I said, quietly but venomously. Given I’d already said that to Reid, Ms Grant and several of my teammates already, I didn’t think it was particularly giving anything away to say it now. Anyway, it was talking to Reid — and, ironically, Hess — that had made me decide to go with this particular cover story. Surely people wouldn’t think I was a fucking nazi if I could prove I’d been looking for intel on the fuckers. Because why the fuck would I do that unless I wished them harm?  
  
The best thing about it was that it was technically completely fucking true.  
  
“Amen to that,” Carlos said quietly, giving me a tight smile.  
  
“Is that… Is it because of the thing with Renegade?” Chris asked hesitantly.  
  
I thought about it for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to answer. I was half-surprised that Missy hadn’t piped up with what I’d told her about Lance, earlier, but she was apparently content to stay silent.  
  
“Partly,” I said. “But mainly, they’re fucking nazis. I don’t think I really need a specific reason.”  
  
“What thing with Renegade?” Rory asked, a small frown creasing his brow.  
  
“I came across one of the motherfucker’s victims a while back,” I said tightly, clamping down on my imagination lest I end up reliving the experience for the umpteenth fucking time. Luckily, on this occasion I was successful. “I tried to save him, but he bled out. It wasn’t pretty.”  
  
Rory sucked in a breath, and then gave me a small, sympathetic smile, the look in his eyes best described as… haunted.  
  
“That sucks,” he said, the words spoken in a refreshingly matter-of-fact tone, rather than with the gentleness I’d been more than half-expecting.  
  
I felt a pang of… something. I wasn’t sure what the fuck it was, but it made my cheeks burn; made me have to drop my gaze for an instant so I could take a fucking breath.  
  
“Yeah,” I said quietly, relieved he wasn’t making a big fucking fuss about it. I mean, people died, especially in Brockton fucking Bay. Adams had died hard, sure, but it was in the past; over and done. There was no point in getting torn up about it now.  
  
(Even if I knew that, if I thought about it too hard, I’d be able to feel the warm tackiness of blood on my skin, to taste the cloying copper-iron tang of it right at the back of my throat, the way you only ever did when the air was fucking saturated with the scent. Even if the sounds Adams had made as he’d struggled to breathe were going to haunt me until my dying day.)  
  
(Even if I would never, could never, forget the fact that he’d died because of me; because of my fuck up.)  
  
I swallowed discreetly, trying to clear away the lump that seemed to have lodged itself in my throat.  
  
“So, you found out about Purity by talking to gangmembers?” Rory asked. Except, he might not have been wearing his mask right now, but it sounded uncomfortably to me like it was Triumph asking the question, not Rory. I found myself sitting up straighter in my chair without even meaning to.  
  
“And their groupies, Sir,” I said. I winced internally at my slip, but he didn’t correct me, so I didn’t apologise. Anyway, using the honorific felt right.  
  
“That was dangerous,” he said, sounding troubled. “You could’ve gotten hurt. Or worse.”  
  
A bitter, jagged laugh forced its way out of my throat, like a hairball made of razor wire.  
  
“I went to Winslow, Sir,” I said. “Hard to avoid rubbing shoulders with fucking gang members. But I was careful. And I can look after myself. In any event, acquiring accurate intel is worth a little risk.”  
  
He stared at me for a moment, and then raised his eyebrows quizzically.  
  
“Accurate intel?” he repeated.  
  
I only just stopped myself from frowning. Was this a test?  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said, cautiously. “The first and best weapon in war is intelligence. Before you can fight an enemy, you need to know who they are, where they are, and what their strengths and weaknesses are. Without that, you might as well be pissing in the fucking wind.” The words slipped out automatically, and I twitched, wishing I’d exercised a little restraint. “Uh, sorry. But that’s what my dad always says.” I made myself take a breath, hoping it would help to quiet the sudden thundering of my pulse in my ears. “He’s… He was a soldier,” I explained. Had I told him that already? I didn’t think so, but I’d told so many people recently that it was hard to be sure.  
  
“I see,” he murmured. He gave me a long, considering look and then, surprisingly, he smiled. “Please stop calling me Sir, Astrid. It’s making me feel old, and I like to think I’m not quite over the hill yet, even if I’m not a Ward any more.”  
  
“Sorry,” I said, flushing.  
  
“Um,” Chris said, hesitantly. To my great relief, everyone focused their attention on him. I felt a little bad about that relief when he shrank into his chair a little, but then he took a deep breath and sat up straight again, giving me an almost pleading look. “What you said, um, do you really think that…? Um, that is…” He cleared his throat again. “We’re not at war!” he burst out, sounding confused, worried and almost painfully earnest.  
  
I sighed, tiredness suddenly like lead in my bones.  
  
“Have you taken a look out there lately?” I asked, my tone bleaker than I was intending. “It sure as shit looks like a war to me. And I don’t just mean the recent flare up.” I shook my head. “Welcome to Brockton fucking Bay,” I murmured, “where the fucking nazis roam with impunity.”  
  
“I think it’s way past time for a change of subject,” Dean said, firmly. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but this is getting way too depressing for me.” Not giving anyone a chance to protest, he immediately asked Rory about some piece of gossip he’d heard about the Protectorate. Something about… Assault trying to play some kind of trick on Armsmaster and having it backfire?  
  
Whatever.  
  
Ordinarily, I would’ve been fascinated to learn even the tiniest scrap of information about the Protectorate — and maybe a little disappointed at the lack of professionalism demonstrated by the story — but right at this moment I couldn’t quite muster the wherewithal to pay attention. I was too busy succumbing to my tendency to second, third and even fourth-guess my actions.  
  
Fuck. Had I made a mistake, speaking up? Had it made them suspicious? But I’d thought about it and thought about it, and I’d ultimately decided that if there was information I could provide without compromising myself too much, then I’d do it. Given everything I’d already let slip, one way or another, I didn’t think this would have raised any real flags.  
  
Had I been wrong?  
  
Oh well.  
  
No point in worrying about it now.  
  
Not that pointlessness of fretting actually stopped me from doing it.  
  
But then, when had it ever?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“I think I’ve figured something out.”  
  
Carlos’ words made me start a little. Not that I hadn’t known he had something on his mind. He’d been giving me little, speculative looks ever since I’d spoken up about Purity. And practically the very instant Rory took his leave, he’d announced his intention to clear away the mugs and glasses and asked me, specifically, if I’d minded giving him a hand.  
  
Christ. He’d been even less subtle than Dean had been, earlier, and that was fucking saying something.  
  
“Oh?” I said, cautiously, fighting off my urge to stand to attention long enough to finish putting the last couple of glasses in the dishwasher.  
  
Carlos was studying me, and that speculative glint was back in his eyes again. It made me feel really fucking twitchy.  
  
“I know you told Chris you hadn’t been out fighting the gangs,” he said quietly. “But I’m not sure that’s true.”  
  
My heart leaped right into my throat, and it took every ounce of my willpower to keep my face impassive.  
  
“I wasn’t lying, Sir,” I said, my voice flatter than a pancake.  
  
Carlos winced.  
  
“That’s not what I…” He broke off, took a breath, and started again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t phrase that very well.” He moved towards me, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how much bigger than me he was; how much stronger. To my horror, I felt my metal start to move over my skin, and I focused very hard on making it stop. “Let me try that again,” he continued. “I’m pretty sure you’ve either fought E88 members before, or you were making preparations to do so,” he said, matter of factly.  
  
Oh fuck. Had he figured it out? The mission? I didn’t see how he could’ve made that leap, but it wasn’t like I hadn’t said more than I’d intended, and maybe I had said too much, or maybe he’d put two and two together some other way, and… and… and…  
  
Just how fucked was I?  
  
“Why do you say that, Sir?” I asked, relieved that my voice, at least, was still steady.  
  
He gave me a disbelieving look.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe it has something to do with the way you talked about gathering intel on your enemies.”  
  
Jesus fucking Christ! Was there no one in this place who wasn’t really fucking sarcastic on occasion?  
  
But… if that was all he meant, then maybe he hadn’t figured out the rest of it at all. Maybe he didn’t know about the mission. (Maybe he hadn’t suddenly worked out who I really was.) Maybe it was okay.  
  
I considered my words very fucking carefully before I responded.  
  
“Why are you telling me this, Sir?” I asked. After a moment’s hesitation, I added: “Am I in some sort of trouble?”  
  
He looked briefly startled, and then, oddly, kind of unhappy.  
  
“No, of course not,” he said hurriedly. “You keep asking me that, but… no. You’re not in trouble.” He sighed heavily. “Look,” he began. There was more, but I’d stopped listening, because reached out and put his fucking hand on my goddamn shoulder. I flinched badly, only just stopping myself from smacking his hand away, or worse. (Or, rather, attempting to, because he was so much stronger than me, so I knew I didn’t have a hope in hell of being able to stop him doing whatever the fuck he wanted, not even with my metal. Because he was a fucking brute, and I was just… I was…) “Shit! Sorry! I’m sorry!” He yanked his hand back as if it had been burned, backing up practically to the other side of the kitchen as he stared at me with wide eyes. “I didn’t mean to… I just didn’t think. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you okay?”  
  
I stared stupidly at him for a moment as I tried to find my voice.  
  
“I’m fine, Sir,” I said, wondering why the fuck he thought I wouldn’t be. Had my (stupid, pathetic, cowardly) reaction had made him worry that he’d used too much of his (fucking brute) strength and left a bruise or something? Shit, this was fucking embarrassing. I was acting like some kind of weak, skittish… child. I needed to be stronger than this. I needed to be better. I took a breath, hoping my face wasn’t as red as I feared it was right now. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”  
  
Please let him just move on. Please.  
  
(I tried not to think that, no matter how fucking concerned he might have been, it was deeply inappropriate for a commander to… to babble like that in front of a subordinate.)  
  
He gave me an inexplicably worried look and ran a hand through his hair, shifting restlessly in place before drawing in an audible breath, sticking his hands behind his back and going still.  
  
“Okay,” he said, and met my eyes. “What I was trying to say was… You’re not the only one who hates nazis. And you’re not the only one who’s at least thought about… taking the fight to them. So I’m pretty sure I understand where you’re coming from.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh, of course.  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said, softly, cursing myself for being so fucking self-centred. Growing up not-white in Brockton fucking Bay? Of course he understood the way I felt about the goddamned Empire.  
  
“Not that the others don’t despise E88, of course,” he said. “But, obviously, it’s a little more… personal… for me.” He hesitated for a moment. “And it seems personal for you, too. Really personal.”  
  
I considered my response carefully for a few moments. Deliberately, I tried to make myself relax from my rigid stance. It wasn’t easy, but I just about managed.  
  
“It is,” I said, softly, keeping the reflexive ‘Sir’ trapped behind my teeth.  
  
Carlos nodded slowly, seeming to relax a little himself.  
  
“I’m not going to pry into your reasons,” he said seriously. “That’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”  
  
“Then… why did you want to talk to me, Carlos?” I asked, like saying that didn’t feel like one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life. But the effort I’d made was rewarded when Carlos smiled.  
  
(Thank fuck I hadn’t misjudged the moment.)  
  
“I wanted to give you some advice,” he said, his smile broadening when I didn’t manage to stop myself eyeing him askance. “If you’ll let me, anyway.”  
  
(It was a complete fucking mystery to me why he kept pretending that he needed my permission for, well, anything at all. He was my superior officer. If he wanted me to do something, or not do something, all he had to do was give me a goddamned order. It was that fucking simple.)  
  
“Okay,” I said, and made myself smile. “I’m intrigued now.”  
  
He laughed, the sound of it — genuine, as far as I could tell — making my smile feel a little less forced.  
  
“It’s pretty straightforward,” he said. “And it’s advice someone gave to me, back when I was where you are now, more or less.” He paused then, but it didn’t seem like he was hesitating so much as taking a moment to put his thoughts in order. The brief silence felt… more comfortable than I would’ve expected. “Those nazi fucks have been doing this a while,” he said and, despite the softness of his voice, the words seemed to hold a yawning abyss of hatred and anger and pain. “I know you’ve been training for a long time, and I’ve seen how well you can fight, but you’re only one person. E88 has the weight of numbers on their side, and I know I don’t need to tell you that they have some really sick pieces of shit fighting for them.”  
  
I studied him.  
  
“Are you telling me to stay away from them?” I asked carefully. I mean, it wasn’t like I was planning on challenging, say, Stormtiger to a fight during my first patrol or anything, but, well, I’d assumed that I would end up facing Empire capes at some point.  
  
Balance of probabilities, and all that.  
  
“Fuck, no,” Carlos bit out, startling me. He smiled, but there was something dark in his eyes; something familiar. “What I’m saying,” he continued, in a less jagged tone, “is that you need to be smart about it.”  
  
Okay, now I really was intrigued.  
  
“Smart, how?” I asked.  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“Preparation, preparation, and preparation. The point of the Wards is to give us a chance to develop all the skills we’ll need to become effective members of the Protectorate. So, make the most of the opportunity. Train. Learn. Practice working with a team. Just… give yourself the best chance you can.” His jaw tightened, his voice roughening slightly as he continued. “E88 aren’t going to do us any favours, and if we’re not careful, if we don’t do this right, the only thing we’ll achieve is to end up as just another set of statistics. And I don’t know about you, Astrid, but I intend to make a fucking difference.”  
  
My breath caught in my throat at the pain in his eyes, and if I’d been someone else, someone who wasn’t so fucking twitchy, I might have put a hand on his arm, or even, God forbid, pulled him into a hug. If I’d been someone who was good with words, I would’ve known just what to say to make him feel better.  
  
But I was just me. And, in the end, the only thing I could offer him were the words he’d given me, earlier.  
  
“Amen to that,” I said.  
  
There was a fraught moment when I was sure I’d said the wrong thing; that he thought I was mocking him, or making light of his pain, but then he nodded, his lips stretching into a tight, fierce smile, and I let out the breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding.  
  
“So, yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair and giving me a sheepish look. “Sorry if I worried you. And if I came on a bit strong. I just… I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to go off and do something… impetuous.” Hurriedly, he added: “Not that I’m saying you would, necessarily, but I just thought… Better safe than sorry.” He frowned. “And Rory was right, you know. Hanging around with gangmembers is kind of a dangerous thing to do, no matter how good a fighter you are.”  
  
“You didn’t come on too strong,” I assured him, carefully not touching the rest of what he’d said. I smiled. “And it is good advice. Thank you.”  
  
He shrugged diffidently, but he seemed pleased.  
  
“Well, like I said, it’s advice that someone gave me, once upon a time, so I can’t really take credit for it.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Okay, it looks like we’re done with the dishes, so I’d better get moving.” He pulled a face. “The patrol paperwork won’t do itself, after all.”  
  
I laughed softly, surprising myself.  
  
“You should ask Chris to make a device that’ll do it for you,” I said. “I bet he’d try.”  
  
“Maybe I will,” Carlos said, smiling.  
  
After he took his leave, I stood there for a moment or two, just turning the conversation over in my mind.  
  
That had been… interesting. A little weird, but not bad. Quite the opposite, really. Certainly better than what I’d been expecting.  
  
“Today,” I murmured aloud, “has been a real fucking rollercoaster of a day.”  
  
I shook my head, and made my way over to the coffee machine, my hands moving on autopilot as I prepared another batch of what Dennis had dubbed ‘rocket fuel.’  
  
(I steadfastly ignored that fucking photo when it invariably popped up in my mind.)  
  
It was time to get some studying done.


	40. Aphenphosmphobia 3.13

“ETA five minutes,” came the clipped voice of OB, Aleph’s squad leader. I joined in with the general chorus of acknowledgements, relieved beyond measure that my voice didn’t shake. Vista’s response was as clipped and business-like as any of the troopers in the van with us. I glanced over in her direction, but between the visor and the tight set of her jaw, it was impossible to tell what was going through her mind. Her diminutive form seemed even smaller next to the PRT soldiers in their bulky armour; almost doll-like. The contrast might almost have seemed funny under other circumstances, but right now all I could think was that if I fucked this up, people could die.  
  
Not a thought that left much room for humour.  
  
I took a slow, deep breath, trying in vain to settle the butterflies in my stomach. I focused on the metal wrapping me from head to toe, but all that did was make me even more painfully aware of how little time I’d had to practice. A couple of days had barely been enough time to master something as simple as walking — plodding, really — without damaging myself. And now I was heading out into the field…  
  
Movement in my peripheral vision drew my attention; the woman on my right hand side leaning in towards me. Ms Price was an even more incongruous sight than Vista. At least Vista was a cape, and she was in costume. Ms Price, on the other hand, looked like she’d just come straight from a boardroom, possibly after successfully executing some kind of hostile takeover. Hell, maybe she had. It wasn’t like I had the first fucking clue what a Public Relations Specialist usually did on a Saturday night. Although I would never in a million years have guessed it might have included accompanying a couple of Wards and a PRT squad on a search and rescue mission.  
  
This was really fucking bizarre.  
  
“I know this situation isn’t ideal,” said Ms Price quietly. “As a rule, we’re not in the habit of debuting our heroes before we’ve even settled on a final costume design for them.” She gave me a wry smile. “You should have heard Timothy curse when he realised we were going to have to send you out in that.”  
  
‘That’ being the practice armour that had never been intended to leave the PRT HQ.  
  
Her tone was almost conspiratorial, like she was inviting me to join her in her amusement. It could have been some kind of trap, but she was probably just trying to help me relax. I might have been irritated if it wasn’t for the fact that I really fucking needed the help.  
  
“I can imagine,” I murmured back, although I couldn’t quite bring myself to return her smile. Mr Barton — Timothy — certainly had seemed passionate about what he called ‘branding,’ rambling enthusiastically and at some length on the subject of silhouettes, demographics, iconography, and a whole bunch of other stuff I honestly hadn’t given a flying fuck about. All I’d been interested in was the fact that I was actually getting proper armour.  
  
Ms Price’s expression sobered. “Unfortunately, circumstances have forced our hand,” she said briskly. I merely nodded in response, my throat suddenly too dry to speak. She gave me a considering look. “From everything we’ve seen so far, though, this task should be well within your capabilities. I’m not saying it will be easy, but you can do it.”  
  
“You really think so?” I found myself asking without meaning to.  
  
“Yes,” she said decisively. “And if we didn’t, you would never have been asked.”  
  
I wondered who was included in that ‘we.’ For that matter, why the fuck would the public relations department be consulted about cape deployment? Sometimes, I thought the more I learned about the PRT, the less I actually understood how it worked.  
  
“That’s… good to know,” I murmured. And it was, I guessed. I just… I wished I’d had more time to prepare for this. Then again, as Dad was fond of saying: ‘Wish in one hand and shit in the other, and I fucking guarantee  it won’t be your wishing hand that fills up first.’  
  
My father sure as shit had a way with words.  
  
“Just remember that you’re not on your own here,” Ms Price told me. “Follow the lead of the PRT officers and emergency responders. Listen to what they tell you, ask questions if you need to, and keep them informed about what you’re doing. Also, Vista here has done this kind of thing before, so I’m sure she’ll be able to give you some pointers. Isn’t that right, Vista?”  
  
“Yes, Ms Price,” Vista said quietly, and then turned to me. “I can show you the ropes. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”  
  
“Thanks,” I murmured. That did help, a little, and Ms Price’s advice sounded like common sense. But those butterflies were still flapping tirelessly around in my stomach.  
  
Shit. I really hoped I didn’t fuck this up.  
  
“Other than that, though,” Ms Price continued, “try not to talk to any press or members of the public if you can avoid it. Officer Webb will handle that side of things. If anyone does persist in attempting to engage you in conversation, just politely inform them that you need to concentrate on what you’re doing and direct them to Webb.”  
  
Ah. That was why she was here: she didn’t trust me not to cram both feet squarely in my mouth if I opened it. Or maybe she was concerned I might terrify some more civilians if she wasn’t here to keep an eye on me.  
  
On reflection, she was probably right to worry about at least one of those.  
  
“I understand,” I said.  
  
“Good,” she said. She glanced towards Officer Webb — or, as he’d been introduced to me, Spider — my designated escort for this operation. “There shouldn’t be any members of the press on site, Officer Webb, but if anyone does approach you, do you remember what to say?”  
  
Spider nodded slowly.  
  
“New Ward. S&R op. Any further questions, they should talk to you,” he drawled laconically. “That’s about the size of it, right?”  
  
“It is, yes,” Ms Price told him, smiling slightly. “Thank you.”  
  
“No problem, Ma’am.” He sounded affable enough, so maybe that meant he really didn’t mind being assigned to babysit me. I would have been more irritated at the fact that the PRT thought I needed a babysitter if it wasn’t for the nagging feeling that they might have been right. Vista would also have an escort, of course, but out of the two of us, I bet I knew which one they were more worried about screwing this up.  
  
Ms Price’s smile faded as she turned her attention back to me, the tiniest of frowns creasing her brow. “I really do wish we’d had time to coach you at least a little on public appearances,” she murmured, “but there’s no point in worrying about that now.”  
  
“If only Lung and Purity had had the courtesy to hold off on throwing down until I was field ready,” I found myself muttering. Shit! I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Clearly, spending time around people like Clockblocker and Gallant was having a deleterious effect on my ability to keep my sarcasm to myself.  
  
One of the PRT soldiers laughed at my comment. Ms Price just arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow.  
  
“Quite,” she said. Her tone gave nothing away, but a beat later she pinned me with a steely-eyed gaze that made my back straighten instinctively. “In any event,” she continued, “the only thing you need to concern yourself with is the task at hand. And on that score, I have every confidence.” She paused for a beat then, still holding my gaze, the firmness of her voice making her next words more than just a reassuring platitude. “You’re going to do just fine, Talos.”  
  
It sounded like a fucking order.  
  
I just prayed it was one I’d be able to obey.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The van jolted suddenly; must’ve hit a pothole or something. I braced myself automatically, but I needn’t have bothered: with the amount of metal I was wearing, I wasn’t sure anything short of a full on collision could’ve shifted me from my seat. A few moments later, the van jolted again, and then things got really bumpy.  
  
I honestly would’ve thought PRT vans would’ve been equipped with better shock absorbers.  
  
“Hey, Hot Wheels. Did you forget how to drive?” called out one of the troopers; the same one who’d laughed at my sarcasm. Chalk was his handle.  
  
“Bitch, please,” Hot Wheels scoffed. “My mad driving skills are the only reason we’re still upright and moving. Anyway, I’d like to see you do any better.” Frustration filled her voice as she muttered. “Not exactly working with prime road surface here.”  
  
Chalk started to reply, but OB cut him off with a curt: “We’re here. Can the chat.”  
   
My heart rate spiked at that; spiked again when the van drew to a slightly bumpy halt. My lungs felt tight, and I fought not to gulp frantically for air, forcing myself to get my shit together and focus. I was completely fucking ashamed of myself. This wasn’t the first time I’d been out in the field. It wasn’t even the first time that lives had…  
  
(warm tackiness on my skin; copper-iron tang all the way down at the back of my throat)  
  
…depended on me. So why the fuck was I being such a goddamn pussy about it?  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I could do this.  
  
I would do this.  
  
I had to do this.  
  
Shame burned within me as I realised I’d zoned out so much that I’d missed the rest of what OB had said to his squad. This was not the most auspicious start, but I would just have to do better from here on out.  
  
Aleph squad departed the van with alacrity. OB lingered a moment though, his blank faceplate turning towards the three of us.  
  
“Stay put until we’ve cleared the site,” he said gruffly. “Shouldn’t be long. I’ll tell you via comms when you can move out.”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said quietly,  
  
“Understood,” Visa said, her voice almost as terse as OB’s.  
  
“Of course,” Ms Price murmured, nodding.  
  
OB turned his head slightly, looking directly at her.  
  
“Ms Price,” he said. “Like I said before, this is an active site, not a press conference. If you’re still determined to go out there, you need to put on that protective gear.”  
  
He gestured to the bag beneath her seat. If I’d thought his tone was gruff before, now it was about as hard as granite. Depending on which member of Aleph squad you talked to, his handle either stood for Old Boots — as in ‘tough as’ — or Old Bastard. Based on what I’d seen of him so far, I could well believe either.  
  
I certainly wasn’t planning on asking the man himself which he preferred.  
  
“Only if it becomes necessary,” Ms Price replied. Her voice took on a slight chill as she added: “And Aleph squad’s role is to ensure that it doesn’t become necessary.” Before he could respond to that, though, her lips curved in a small, defusing smile, her voice softening a little as she continued speaking. “I know this isn’t exactly standard procedure, but these are extenuating circumstances. I need you to do your job, so I can do mine. If we want to have a job at the end of the month, then we both need that. Much though we might wish otherwise, optics do matter, and if I look like I’m loaded for bear, people might start to question whether it’s safe for Wards to be out here at all. That is a rabbit hole we do not want to go down. Trust me.”  
  
The silence stretched for a moment, and then OB twitched his shoulders in a shrug.  
  
“It’s your skin you’re risking,” he said, pronouncing the words like a judgement. “But if it does become necessary, I expect you to gear up without argument. And if I tell you we’re bugging out, you hightail it right back to the van. No ifs, buts or maybes. Are we clear?”  
  
“As crystal,” she agreed readily. It was impossible to tell if her apparently cheerful acquiescence was genuine, or merely a façade. Whatever the case, OB merely nodded once and left to join his squad.  
  
Vista and I found ourselves sharing a look.  
  
“Clearing the site is just a precaution,” came Hot Wheels’ voice from up front. As per PRT policy, she would be remaining with the vehicle. “Far as we know, the fighting stopped a while ago. But we have to make sure.” I could hear the grin in her voice as she continued: “Better safe than sautéed, right?”  
  
“Copy that,” I murmured, amused. “Although, last I checked, Lung doesn’t seem to be the ‘hide and wait’ type, so we’re probably talking about Oni Lee or non-powered ABB members. In which case, it would be ‘better safe than blown to smithereens or shot to shit’.”  
  
Hot Wheels laughed, but Ms Price fixed me with a forbidding expression.  
  
“Please do not say anything like that one you leave this van,” she said sternly, and leading wth ‘please’ didn’t make her words any less a command. “It sends entirely the wrong message.”  
  
“I won’t, Ma’am, uh, I mean Ms Price. I’m sorry.”  
  
I immediately resolved not to say another word unless I absolutely had to. After all, I couldn’t say anything wrong if I said nothing at all, right?  
  
Right?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

_Fuck me,_ I thought, but thankfully didn’t say.  
  
What had once been a road was now scorched and even melted in places; riven with gouges, pocked with craters and strewn with all manner of debris.  
  
“No wonder Hot Wheels was having trouble,” Vista murmured quietly.  
  
I just nodded, partly because I was clinging to my resolution not to speak unless absolutely necessary, and partly because it was taking a fuck of a lot of concentration just to keep plodding along. I hoped our escorts from Aleph squad weren’t pissed off at my slow pace. If they were, they were too professional to say anything about it as we made our way toward the temporary command post. Given the state of the road, it was impressive that Hot Wheels had managed to get the PRT van as close as she had, but we still had a bit of a walk. It must have been a nightmare for the fire crews and paramedics.  
  
The location was a residential area; a row of houses leading up to a courtyard containing four apartment blocks. Many of the streetlights were out, but a handful of emergency floodlights bathed the scene in a harsh, fluorescent glare, the strobing lights of the emergency vehicles adding an eerie, almost otherworldly quality to the illumination. Run-down apartment blocks became battle-scarred alien monoliths reaching desperately for the sky. Rows of houses were teeth in the gaping maw of some great beast. Some of the buildings seemed to have escaped the recent violence more or less untouched, their only wounds those inflicted by time and vandals, exacerbated by their location in one of the poorer areas of Brockton fucking Bay. Others, though, hadn’t fared so well. I saw façades scorched back to bare brick and spider-webbed with cracks; windows smashed or even melted. Smoke and steam curled gently up into the cold night air from buildings that glittered damply in the light. Firefighters were still plying their hoses at the base of one tower block, the flames there slowly — very slowly — guttering and dying.  
  
And that block…  
  
_Fuck me,_ I thought, again.  
  
It was suddenly blindingly obvious why the emergency responders had requested parahuman assistance.  
  
I really hoped I didn’t fuck this up.  
  
Civilians were milling around the place, emergency responders trying with varying degrees of success to herd them towards designated gathering points. Those unable to move under their own power were carried by stretcher, the ground presumably being too uneven for wheeled gurneys.  
  
Somewhat uneasily, I noted the cellphones being pointed in our direction. I tried not to worry about it.  
  
“…understand the manpower issues,” a man was saying tightly as we approached. “But we need to get that road clear ASAP. Over.” A tinny voice emerged from the radio he was gripping tightly in one hand. I couldn’t make out more than a few words from this distance, but from the scowl on the man’s face, he was picking up loud and clear, and it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “Just do what you can,” he snapped. “And keep me updated. Simmons out.”  
  
We were close enough now that I could see the ruddiness of his complexion, and the little vein throbbing at his temple. It was enough to make me fear for the man’s health. In a distant part of my mind, I reviewed first aid procedures for heart attacks and strokes. Although, with all the properly trained medics around, hopefully my first aid skills wouldn’t prove necessary.  
  
“Lieutenant Simmons,” Ms Price said briskly, as soon as he’d finished his conversation. “Good evening. My name is Petra Price, and I represent the PRT.” Interesting choice of words. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to remain here so I can field any questions about the parahuman side of this operation.” She gave him a winning smile. “I promise I won’t get in your way.”  
  
“Fine,” he said shortly, his gaze flicking over the Aleph squad soldiers and lingering on Vista and me. “Keep the press and public off my back, and I’ll be eternally grateful. There’s already been a so-called ‘blogger’ buzzing around. And where there’s one…” He shook his head, grimacing with what looked like disgust. “Vultures, the lot of them.”  
  
A hint of a frown flickered across Ms Price’s face, tightening the skin around her eyes for the barest moment, but she kept her smile. “I’ll see what I can do,” she assured him. “Now, I believe you already know Vista.”  
  
“Good to see you, little lady,” Lieutenant Simmons said, giving her a tired-seeming grin.  
  
“Lieutenant Simmons,” Vista replied, her tone professional. As soon as the man turned his gaze to me, though, I saw her make a moue of distaste.  
  
“And may I introduce Talos, the newest member of the Wards East Northeast,” Ms Price said. “Talos can sense and manipulate matter through contact.”  
  
The introduction made me feel weirdly disoriented, like Ms Price was talking about someone else, not me. Would it have seemed less strange if I hadn’t had to pick my cape name all in a rush? If I’d had the time to properly weigh up all the options I’d been given? If I’d actually had the chance to get used to the one I’d chosen before being deployed on my first mission as a Ward?  
  
I was still half-regretting not going with Xiphos. Plus, despite my initial dismissal, I had to admit that Galatea had started to grow on me. Even Heavy Metal, for all its silliness, had a certain kind of quirky appeal.  
  
Still, it was kind of a moot point now. I’d made my choice.  
  
“Thanks for volunteering, kid,” Lieutenant Simmons told me, sounding genuine, if a little grim. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Sir,” I said softly, squelching the brief flare of irritation at being called ‘kid.’ I assumed I was allowed to talk to him. Certainly, Ms Price hadn’t given any indication that I wasn’t, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of person who had any difficulty in making her opinions known.  
  
“Give me a moment,” he said brusquely, not giving me the chance to respond before turning to Vista. “Will you try to ID any areas where people are trapped?”  
  
“Of course,” she replied, nodding. “Where do you want me to start?”  
  
He gestured her over to the map he’d got spread out on the cheap folding table so he could brief her on the search grid they’d set up. I wondered how many times Vista had done this kind of thing. How many cape fights left enough collateral damage to require a search and rescue effort at all, let alone one involving parahuman support? Even in Brockton fucking Bay, I didn’t think that was exactly an everyday occurrence. Then again, how many cape fights involved Purity and Lung? Weakness of character aside, there was no denying that Purity was a powerful cape. And Lung was, well, Lung. If either or both of them had actually cut loose, it was a miracle that anything around here was still standing.  
  
Given the location, it was almost more of a miracle the city had mustered this level of a response in what seemed like a relatively short space of time. This wasn’t exactly the good part of town. No one important lived here. It wasn’t the Protectorate’s territory. If memory served, this area was claimed by the Archer’s Bridge Merchants, which raised another question: why, of all places, had Lung and Purity been fighting here? And why hadn’t the Merchant capes gotten involved?  
  
Ms Price leaned in and gave me an encouraging smile, jolting me out of my thoughts.  
  
“You’re going to be fine, Talos,” she murmured, much as she had earlier. “Just remember to breathe, okay?”  
  
Was I holding my breath? I didn’t think so, even though my chest was feeling a little tight. I made myself take slow, calm, deliberate breaths. In, out. In, out. In, out. Focusing on that seemed to help, at least a little.  
  
“Thank you, Ms Price,” I said quietly. She smiled at me, but said nothing.  
  
In short order, Vista and her Aleph squad escort — Chalk — set off. She nodded at me as she left. I nodded back, and then turned to Lieutenant Simmons, who was eyeing me thoughtfully.  
  
“Right,” he said. “Talos, was it?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I replied.  
  
“Let’s figure out what we can do with you…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I looked up at my target, my gaze lingering on the deep cracks fissuring its surface, at the way it was listing slightly but noticeably to one side. A huge chunk had been taken out of one corner, as if something massive had barrelled into it at great speed. Honestly, it looked like it could come down at any moment, an impression strengthened by the ominous creaking sounds coming from the damaged structure.  
  
“Have you ever done anything like this before?” Spider asked quietly, as the two of us approached the apartment block. (In a distant part of my mind, I wondered if his presence for my protection, or to protect everyone else in the event that my power flared out of control. Honestly, I suspected it was more the latter, but I didn’t blame them in the slightest.)  
  
“Once,” I said absently, most of my attention devoted to the upcoming task. “But that was only a drill. And the building was much smaller.” Unease twisted my gut as I remembered how that particular test had ended. The explosion. The blood. I knew it hadn’t been real, hadn’t been my fault, but I couldn’t help worrying.  
  
Shit, why were they trusting me with something like this? I wasn’t sure I trusted myself. Then again, what choice was there?  
  
One of the firefighters would be monitoring the building, I knew. Training a surveyor’s tool — a transit? — on the structure, he would watch carefully for signs that that it was about to collapse. It was a relief to know that they weren’t depending solely on me for a warning. But I had access to so much more information than the monitor did, and faster. More than that, if the worst did come to the worst and the building did start to fall, or to break apart, there was a decent chance I could at least slow the process down, buying more time for the evacuation.  
  
No wonder Lieutenant Simmons had overcome his initial reluctance to send a ‘kid’ into a potential collapse zone.  
  
“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Spider murmured.  
  
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. Fortunately, I was spared the necessity of a response by our arrival at the base of the tower block. I could feel the heat of flames too stubborn to die, overcoming even the chill of the breeze. Not overwhelming, not yet, but there was no time to dawdle.  
  
“Starting now,” I said, and was distantly aware of Spider’s voice relaying the message to field command, and the search and rescue team waiting to enter the tower block. Without further ado, I took a breath, reached out a hand and claimed the building with my power.  
  
For a brief, mad moment, I wondered what it would feel like to rip apart all the bonds holding together the concrete and steel and glass and plastic and everything else that made up the totality of the multi-storey building, but then I shunted the nonsense thought aside to join the doubt and trepidation clustering like cobwebs at the edges of my awareness. The bulk of my attention was taken up by the shapes blooming like fire in my mind. And, speaking of fires…  
  
The oxidising bonds were high-pitched sparks of cobalt and citrus; a pleasant fizzing sensation like bubbles on my tongue. Under other circumstances, I might have regretted that I had to snuff them out, but people were depending on this. As I smothered them, cutting off their oxygen supply, I also stilled the more agitated bonds, leaching out the heat. Not for the first time, I wondered where it went, where the energy to do all this even came from, but this was neither the time nor the place to figure out how my power worked. The important thing was that it did. And with two sides of the fire triangle removed (or three sides of the fire tetrahedron, if you were being technical about it), the flames soon died down.  
  
While I devoted one part of my mind to putting out the fire, another part was mapping out the building from its foundations all the way up to its highest point. Déjà vu took me back briefly to when I sent my power through that mall shortly after triggering; that sensation of looking through a microscope and a telescope at the same time. There was a brief moment of disorientation, but then it passed, almost as if my awareness… deepened. Pain pricked faintly at the edges of my senses — like slim needles sliding easily into my flesh — but it was unimportant; easily dismissed. Anyway, I had to ignore it. I needed the resolution.  
  
Comparing my sense of the structure with the tower block I’d scanned previously, I assessed the extent of the damage and tried to figure out how — if — I could fix it.  
  
Well, shit.  
  
“You say something?” Spider asked.  
  
Had I said that aloud? Whatever; it didn’t matter.  
  
“I need to talk to Lieutenant Simmons,” I said. Not waiting for a response from him, I got on the comms. When the lieutenant told me to go ahead, he sounded worried. I didn’t blame him in the slightest. “The fire’s out, Sir,” I told him, “and I’ve stabilised the building as much as I can for the moment, but the damage is extensive, including to load-bearing parts. I can hold it together for now, but it’s under a great deal of stress, and there’s a significant risk of collapse.” As if to illustrate my point, the structure creaked alarmingly. I tightened my grip on it, careful not to damage the brittler materials used in its construction. “If I had more metal, I could stabilise it further, but otherwise I recommend the search team move quickly. Over.”  
  
“Understood, Talos,” he replied, sounding deeply unhappy. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you some metal. Stay on this channel and be prepared to advise the search team as necessary. Out.”  
  
Things seemed to move quickly after that.  
  
The rescue team entered the apartment block and began their retrieval operation, moving from the ground floor up in a pre-determined search pattern. I’d been surprised to learn that they were going to wok bottom-up, not top-down. It seemed counter-intuitive at first — the people at the top were in more danger, and would take more time to evacuate, so starting at the top gave them a greater chance of getting out. After turning the puzzle over in my mind for a few moments, though, the reason became clear. Working on the assumption that only a limited amount of time was available, going for the easier targets increased the number of people the search team could recover within that time.  
  
Simple triage, really.  
  
I approved of their practicality, even as I felt relief that I wasn’t the one responsible for making that decision.  
  
From her position back at the field command post, Vista had pinged the building with her power, locating anyone unfortunate enough to still be inside. (There were a surprising number of those, considering. Had they just hunkered down and hoped for the best? Surely they’d noticed the way the building had been swaying alarmingly in the breeze.) The rescue team had based their search pattern on the information she’d provided. She had volunteered to accompany them on their foray into the building, but Lieutenant Simmons had point blank refused to allow it.  
  
If he hadn’t, I strongly suspected that Ms Price would’ve done. Assuming that she had the authority to do so of course, but she certainly acted as though she did.  
  
In any case, Vista was continuing to monitor the building’s occupants. Well, technically she was monitoring the distortions their presence caused in her spatial sense (senses?), but it pretty much amounted to the same thing. Like me, she was listening in on the team’s comms traffic, ready to advise them if necessary. Doubtless she would like to be doing more than merely watching and advising, but she’d sourly muttered on the way over that warping damaged buildings risked collapsing them.  
  
However, a problem came up that required input from both of us.  
  
“Pinging now,” she informed me.  
  
I focused a strand of my attention on one floor in particular, tracing out the minute topographical distortions that resulted when Vista pinged that area with her power. All… except…  
  
Aha!  
  
“Talos to Marsh. They’re on the second floor, Sir, in the third apartment from the east stairwell, on the north side. Over.”  
  
Marsh, the search team leader, acknowledged the information, but noted: “That’s the other side of the hole from where we are.”  
  
I suspected the hole in the floor — and similar ones that lay along a diagonal line cutting through the building — had been caused by one of Purity’s blasts. The edges were too neat to be Lung’s work. She wasn’t usually quite so indiscriminate with her collateral damage, but maybe Lung had just dodged at the last moment. On the other hand, this was Merchant territory, and one of the few things Dad admired about Kayden was her hardline stance on those who sold or used drugs. Maybe she’d just assumed everyone here was in one or both of those groups and simply hadn’t cared if some of them ended up as collateral.  
  
“I can find you another route, Sir,” I offered. “Just give me a moment…” I considered the options, selecting a route and tracing it out in my mind to be sure I hadn’t missed any hazards. Satisfied, I transmitted my response. “East stairwell, up one flight, cross to the West stairwell, down one flight but mind the missing step third from the bottom, turn right. The path to your target should be clear from that direction, but watch for loose wires. I’ve opened the door. Over.”  
  
The extra seconds not spent breaking the door down, after all, were precious seconds that could be used to retrieve whoever was in the apartment. I had considered disintegrating the door altogether, but figured it was probably better just to sever the surprisingly numerous locks, bolts and chains keeping them closed.  
  
(Less of a distraction that way, certainly. And nothing at all to do with a nagging fear that, once I started disintegrating things, I might not be able to stop.)  
  
“I take it you can’t simply fix the hole?” Marsh asked hopefully.  
  
“I’m afraid not, Sir,” I said regretfully. “Over.”  
  
It was too big for me to simply bond the edges together, and the material was too brittle for me to shift it around to fill in the gap. I didn’t want to start pulling metal and plastic out of the walls in case I damaged the building’s structural integrity in the process. I tried not to think that I could have fixed it with my metal if I hadn’t been ordered to stay outside.  
  
“Oh well,” he said cheerfully. “At least we don’t have to figure out a route by trial and error. Thanks, Talos.” As he signed off, I wondered why he’d bothered trying to reassure me. Did I sound like I needed it? I hoped not.  
  
While the unfortunate occupant or occupants of apartment two-twelve were retrieved by Marsh and his team, I felt the ground outside warp suddenly, and a couple of Aleph squad members were abruptly standing nearby, shoving what looked like the twisted wreckage of a car towards me.  
  
“We’ll hopefully be able to scavenge a few more of these,” said the one on the left; Swan, from his voice. “Do you have any idea how many you’re going to need?”  
  
“As many as you can get,” I said, absently. “Thanks.” I couldn’t quite reach the vehicle without taking my hand off the building, so I absently lashed out with a wire, binding it to the wreck so I could search it for useable materials. I tried not to pull a face at the realisation that the body panels were fibreglass. The frame was steel, though. I could definitely use that.  
  
“Simmons asked if you could leave the license plate intact,” the other squad member — Roman — said suddenly. “He said it’ll make the paperwork easier afterwards.”  
  
“Sure,” I said, scooping up the item in question with a flattened filament of steel and holding it out in the vague direction of Roman and Swan. “Here you go.”  
  
“Thanks,” Roman muttered, picking it up. His tone sounded a little odd to my ears, but I didn’t have the attention to worry about that now. “We’ll be back.” The two of them turned to leave, and the topography of the courtyard went back to normal.  
  
Triaging the building, I sent the metal off to shore up one of the more damaged sections, wishing fervently that the civil engineer Lieutenant Simmons had mentioned had actually showed up. I mean, my power showed me where the damage was, but when it came to figuring out what to fix first, all I had to go on was my limited knowledge. What if my triaging strategy was flawed? What if I ended up putting even more stress on the structure by carrying out repairs in the wrong order?  
  
What if I brought the whole goddamn building down by accident?  
  
‘Killing people should be a deliberate action. A choice,’ whispered Dad’s voice in my head, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe, the memory of what he’d wanted me to do for my Blooding slamming into the forefront of my mind like a tidal wave. No, I… I couldn’t. I couldn’t fail. All those people still trapped in there… The rescue team… If the building came down, they would die, and it would be my fault; it would be as if I’d killed them myself.  
  
I wouldn’t kill. I **wouldn’t**.  
  
(‘You’re sixteen now,’ my father had said, a few days after my birthday. “It’s time you proved yourself worthy of your mother’s legacy.’ I hadn’t been given permission to stand down, and his eyes had seemed to bore right through me as I’d stood to attention in the middle of the basement, struggling to keep my breathing even after his impromptu test of my fighting ability. Fear had turned my blood to ice as I wondered what torment he was going to inflict on me this time; what fresh hell he was going to put me through to try to make me trigger. Instead, what he’d said was: ‘It’s time for you to take a life.’)  
  
“Talos, you okay?” Spider’s voice thankfully snapped me out of my incipient panic. I got my breathing under control, and straightened up from where I’d been practically leaning on the building, relieved beyond measure that my power didn’t seem to have done anything untoward while I’d been temporarily distracted.  
  
“Fine,” I said, my tone a little more brusque than I’d intended. I softened it slightly as I added: “There’s a lot of information to process.” That was certainly true enough. This was… It was like a floodgate in my mind had been opened, information flowing with a level of detail I’d only ever experienced on two occasions so far: when I’d triggered, and just after my final conversation with my father. “I can handle it, though.” At least for now, although it was a little… overwhelming. “It just took me a moment to adjust.”  
  
I wondered whether Spider would question me further, but to my relief he just nodded.  
  
“Speak up if you start having trouble,” he said. “Or, if you think you’re going to.”  
  
“Will do,” I replied.  
  
Space twisted again, and there were Swan and Roman with another wrecked car. As I extracted the useable metal and put it to work, a woman and two children emerged from the building; the former occupants of apartment two-twelve, presumably. The woman was bleeding from a head wound and weaving dizzily, barely able to put one foot in front of the other without help. The older of the two children — a boy a few years younger than me — supported and guided her with one arm, cradling an infant in the other. I saw him glance my way as the paramedics rushed over to see to the woman, his expression guarded.  
  
A popping sensation, like a finger wrenched out of joint but without the pain, drew my attention to the east stairwell, and a rapidly widening crack. Fuck! How had I missed that? It was too far away for me to get my newly claimed metal up there in time, but fortunately there was another solution: the bannister was made of iron. Pretty fucking shitty iron, it was true, but it was better than nothing. I grabbed a handful of the struts — making sure to leave enough that the bannister could still fulfil its function — and sent a stream of metal to bracket and brace widening edge of the crack. Once I’d halted the spread of the damage, then I could set about fixing it; an exercise not unlike suturing a wound.  
  
As the last of the metal settled into place, I couldn’t help reflecting on a facet of my power I’d noticed pretty much right from the outset, which this operation was really driving home in spades: breaking shit was easy, but fixing it was fucking hard.  
  
Against my will, I found myself remembering, again, the way I’d almost torn my house apart after Dad told me what he expected ‘Razorwire’ to do for her Blooding; the way it had felt like my power was fighting me when I’d tried to fix the damage I’d caused. This wasn’t quite as bad as that, most likely because I wasn’t right in the middle of freaking the fuck out, but I had to wonder…  
  
Was this something to do with me power, or was it just me?  
  
Was there even a difference?  
  
Just how fucked in the head was I?  
  
No. Not the time, not the place. I had a mission to complete. This introspective shit would have to wait.  
  
Things started to blur into each other a little after that. Claim metal, making sure to deposit the license plates from the cars in a neat pile for Lieutenant Simmons. Use that metal — and whatever I could safely take from the building itself — to try to fix what seemed to be an endless number of problems contributing to the tower block’s ever-increasing structural instability. Occasionally work with Vista to narrow down the location of people in need of evacuation. Figure out — and, in some cases, carefully clear — reasonably safe routes for the rescue team and their evacuees.  
  
Repeat ad nauseam.  
  
Speaking of nausea, my stomach had decided that now was the perfect fucking time to start roiling uneasily. At first I thought the queasy feeling might be due to tension, but then I put it together with the stabbing pain in my head — the needles had long since upgraded to ice picks — and the colours clouding my vision, only just refraining from swearing aloud and at length with the realisation of what that meant.  
  
Oh, I really fucking hated migraines.  
  
But it wasn’t too bad; not yet, anyway. It was honestly more annoying than anything. I could just ignore it. Anyway, I was going to have to, because this was no goddamn time for me to be weak.  
  
I had a fucking job to do.  
  
Without warning, a bright light suddenly drilled right through my eyes to bury itself like a knife in my brain.  
  
“Motherfucker,” I snapped before I could stop myself. Blinking away the afterimages, I glared murderously at the complete fucking moron who thought it was a good idea come into a potential collapse area and shine lights in the face of the person who was doing her level best to keep the goddamned building together. Before I could tell him to fuck the fuck off, though, Spider stepped up, clearing his throat.  
  
“I’m afraid you can’t be here, Sir,” he said, his tone clipped but polite. “For your own safety, please move back behind the cordon.”  
  
The man — the photographer, I belatedly realised — took another picture and peered at me.  
  
“You’re new, aren’t you?” he asked; slurred, really. “What’s your name?”  
  
Was he drunk? High? Or just an idiot lacking a survival instinct?  
  
I did not have the attention to spare for this shit right now.  
  
Mindful of Ms Price’s many admonitions, I neither unleashed a stream of profanity, nor physically shoved Mr Fuckwit away, instead flatly telling him: “I’m afraid I need to concentrate on what I’m doing. Please retreat behind the cordon for your own safety.”  
  
After that, I promptly ignored him. Doing so went against my instincts but, well, I did need to concentrate. Anyway, I was pretty sure Spider could deal with him.  
  
Pushing the irritation to one side — it could join the nervousness, and the growing pain of the migraine — I focused on the task at hand.  
  
More fixing. More stabilising. More pain.  
  
The ice pick in my skull was stabbing in time with my racing pulse, and my whole head felt like it was being clamped in a vice.  
  
It was fine, though. I could handle it. It was just pain.  
  
A sudden bloom of citrus and cobalt effervescence caught me off-guard, and I scrambled to pin it down, activating my comms reflexively.  
  
“Talos to Marsh,” I said. “There’s a…”  
  
But before I could even say the word ‘fire,’ the apartment exploded.


	41. Aphenphosmphobia 3.14

Time seemed to slow almost to a crawl as the blast tore through the apartment.  
  
I felt a chunk of wall starting to blow out, bond after bond breaking in a cascade rippling though the concrete. I reflexively attempted to disintegrate it, somehow managing to turn it to dust before it could detach completely. The act of destruction was, as always, accompanied by a rush of what I could only describe as pure bliss, but I forced myself to focus through it, shaking off the distraction.  
  
Time sped up again, resuming its normal course, and I was acutely aware that each tick of the clock brought us that much closer to disaster. The force of the explosion was spreading through stress lines and fractures like electricity darting along a path of least resistance. For the already much-abused building, it was the last straw. Despite knowing my efforts would ultimately be futile, I drew deeply on sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness to dig into reserves of power I hadn’t even realised were there, focusing everything I had on willing the tower block not to fall.  
  
Not yet.  
  
“Talos to Marsh,” I said. “The building’s coming down and I can’t stop it.” The admission felt like a punch to the gut; another helping of nausea to go with that thrice bedamned migraine. “You need to exfil now. Over.”  
  
He didn’t reply.  
  
A support pillar split right down the middle with a crack that seemed to resonate deep in my bones, ribbons of darkness spilling across my mind’s eye like ink from a pot. I frantically tried to bind the widening gap back together again, but it had spread too far, too fast. With a sickening lurch, I felt the building start to twist and shudder.  
  
“Marsh, respond,” barked Lieutenant Simmons’ voice, before I could try raising him again.  
  
Somewhat detachedly, I noted that I felt kind of… weird. My skin was prickling with, well, not pain exactly, but more like pins and needles. Like the moment when you first try to stand after kneeling in place for hours on end; the interval between realising your legs have gone to sleep and the agonising return of sensation.  
  
Like I’d said: weird.  
  
“Jensen here,” came the voice of Marsh’s 2IC. She sounded breathless. “Marsh has been injured by falling debris. We’re making best speed down the east stairs.”  
  
East stairs… I checked their route, doing what I could to shore up any weak spots and fill in any gaps. It wasn’t as much as I would’ve hoped. I was… I was having a little trouble focusing right now. That was why it took me a moment to realise that the cacophonous clanging in my ears wasn’t all inside my head.  
  
Someone was rapping sharply on my helmet.  
  
“…snap out of it,” Spider was saying, his words rushed and urgent. “We need to go!”  
  
“I can slow the collapse,” I told him. “Try to give them more time.”  
  
“Not your call,” Spider snapped. “Now get moving. That’s an order.”  
  
 _I can help,_ I wanted to insist.  
  
 _Let me try,_ I wanted to demand.  
  
 _Let me atone for whatever it was I did wrong,_ I wanted to plead.  
  
But an order was an order. Anyway, I wasn’t sure whether or not Spider would leave without me and it wasn’t fair that he should pay for my fuck-up.  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said. Despite my misgivings, I detached myself from the building and made myself start jogging towards the cordon.  
  
It didn’t… didn’t hurt that much. I could cope.  
  
Anyway, it wasn’t like I had a choice.  
  
Spider jogged alongside me, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like “About damn time.”  
  
I dimly registered the fact that I felt warm all of a sudden; too warm. Not that I’d really been cold before, but now it was like I burning up from the inside. Maybe it was the exertion.  
  
The apartment block groaned like a beast in pain and I had to bite back an answering whimper of my own as materials strained like a joint on the verge of breaking; fireworks screaming through my head in little starbursts of colour and sound. I could taste metal all the way down at the back of my throat, my teeth aching like I’d been chewing on foil. But I didn’t think there was anything in my mouth and I knew where every little bit of **my** metal was; even the tendrils threaded through the skin and bones of the dying building as I tried vainly to…  
  
I risked a glance back over my shoulder, clenching my jaw as the world spun crazily, drunkenly around me, half-knowing what I’d see and somehow still needing to check. Sure enough, metal streamed out behind me like fine ribbons; my power flowing along them like water through a pipe.  
  
 _Shadow Stalker’s coat,_ I thought, and had to choke back a giddy kind of mirth at the thought of what that meant. But then I had to bite back another whimper as something twisted, deep inside… inside the building. At least, I thought it was the building. As the flood of sensation coursed mercilessly along my already overloaded nerves, it was getting harder and harder to tell where I ended and and it began.  
  
 _Endure,_ I told us both.  
  
I could do that much, I knew. No matter how much it hurt. The tower block, on the other hand…  
  
Shear forces broke its spine, subjecting it to pressures it was never intended to resist. And, once forced to yield to the implacable demands of gravity, its own weight tore it apart.  
  
It happened slower than I would’ve thought; certainly slower than the controlled demolitions I’d seen. Slower, and… and messier. Force applied **here** causing an effect **there** , that went on to cause other effects. A spreading, tangled web of chain reactions, all at once, too many to fathom, let alone stop. Metal screamed as it twisted, stretched and, finally, snapped. Concrete cracked and crumbled, walls splayed like limbs worn to exhaustion and beyond. Floors collapsed one by one by one; a house of cards come tumbling down.  
  
I scrabbled uselessly with the dregs of my power; a sensation like skin scraped raw and fingernails splintered and torn, like digging through hard earth with nothing but my bare hands. My field of vision narrowed, consumed by degrees as writhing, hissing snakes crowded and crawled around its edges and I knew I couldn’t… couldn’t keep doing this much longer.  
  
‘Choose your battles,’ my father told me, and I was forced to concede that he had a point. I honestly wasn’t sure how much difference I was even making like this. So, despairing, I drew my power back, relinquishing my claim on everything but the east stairwell. That, I clung to as if my life depended on it, focusing everything I had on one simple command:  
  
 _Hold._  
  
A sharp pain followed by a gaping absence, like a lost tooth, made me steal another glance back over my shoulder. Chunks of masonry had sheared off from the face of the now badly-listing building, even from the part I was trying so desperately to protect. My helplessness to stop it was like bitter ashes on my tongue, and I cringed inside in anticipation of screams and blood. But the projectiles fell at an impossible angles, unlikely trajectories carrying them far away from anyone it could have hurt.  
  
It was almost a shock to remember that, no matter how it felt, I wasn’t truly alone here.  
  
The ground warped as Vista continued to ply her power, my grasp on the dying structure loosening further as it receded into the distance. I struggled to tighten my grip again, digging as deep as I could into the well of my power, but the well was running dry. I stumbled to a halt next to Vista. She was doing… something else, something that affected the building, but I just couldn’t follow the intricacies of it, my mind’s eye blurring and darkening to uselessness. In the end, all I could do was watch with faltering, merely human senses as the apartment block I’d fought so hard to save finally succumbed to its wounds.  
  
During the unknown span of time since the retreat had been sounded, half of it had just gone; crumpled in on itself, concertina-like. The rest of it was already haemorrhaging bits and pieces of itself and now, with a bizarre kind of drunken grace, it toppled like a domino.  
  
The ground shuddered with the force of the impact, a great plume of dust rising like a tidal wave to fill the air.  
  
And, in the silence that followed, one question burned its way into the forefront of my mind, searing like a brand.  
  
How many people had my failure just killed?  
  
I wondered if my father would be proud.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I…  
  
There was a weight on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs as I struggled uselessly to inflate them. My pulse thundered like a freight train in my ears, racing in time with the piledriver in my head. Or maybe it was the other way around.  
  
I couldn’t…  
  
My hands were shaking. No, not just my hands; this was a full-body tremor, strength flooding out of me like water. The world swam about me, my knees starting to buckle, and for a dreadful, jagged moment, the only thing keeping me upright was the metal armour wrapped around my malfunctioning body.  
  
I couldn’t breathe.  
  
There was a high-pitched whining noise in one of my ears, or maybe both of them; a nails-on-chalkboard screech that seemed to go right through my teeth.  
  
I had to breathe.  
  
If I could breathe, I could move. If I could move, I could stand. If I could stand, I could fight. If I could fight, then I could win. And I was already standing, which was half the fucking battle won right there. So all I had to do now was…  
  
I forced myself to suck in a breath, and promptly started choking on dust, coughing and coughing until it felt like I was going to hack up a lung. The world pulsed red and black around me as my whole body shuddered with the force of it. Desperately, I fought a rising tide of nausea, only winning that battle by the skin of my teeth. Eventually, though, I managed to force my malfunctioning body back under some semblance of control.  
  
Not a moment too soon.  
  
“You okay, Talos?” Spider asked, sounding concerned.  
  
I turned to face him, relieved beyond all measure that my armour actually moved with me. A shiver went down my spine at the thought of my power failing me while I was wearing it; of being entombed in my own metal. I shoved that fear away and drew myself up as much as I could in my recalcitrant costume, directing my clouded gaze to where I thought Spider’s eyes were behind the blank faceplate of his helmet.  
  
“I’m fine,” I lied, the words rasping painfully in my sore throat. “Just inhaled a lungful of dust, that’s all.”  
  
I felt like I was being scrutinised within an inch of my life, but that might just have been my self-consciousness talking. In any case, after what was either an eternity, or a mere handful of moments, Spider nodded. “Good,” he said. It was impossible to tell from his tone whether I’d actually convinced him, but at least he was keeping any doubts he might have had to himself. He started to say something else, but broke off at the sound of comms chatter.  
  
“We all made it out okay, more or less,” Jensen reported, her voice a little shaky. “Marsh needs medical attention, though.”  
  
A muted cheer went up from the people around us, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to join in. I was relieved that they’d survived, of course I was, but my relief was tempered by the knowledge that others hadn’t been so fortunate.  
  
What had happened? What had I missed?  
  
How had I fucked up?  
  
“Want some water?” Spider asked, once the comms fell silent again. I hesitated for a moment, uncertain, but I was so fucking thirsty right now. Plus, my mouth tasted like metal and concrete, seasoned with a soupçon of bile.  
  
Anyway, I’d be able to tell if there was anything in that bottle that shouldn’t be.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, accepting the bottle he held out. It was still sealed, I noted. I had to admit I cheated a little to open it. With how pathetic I was feeling right now, I wasn’t sure I even had the strength in my fingers to twist the cap off, and there was no fucking way I was going to ask for help.  
  
Despite the temptation to chug down the bottle’s contents, I took a careful sip of water, barely wetting my mouth. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least as far as I could tell. Reassured, I drank more deeply.  
  
There was more comms traffic. Some of it, I noted disapprovingly, didn’t precisely follow proper voice procedure. It wasn’t terrible, but it could definitely have been better. Lieutenant Simmons, disappointingly, was one of the offenders in that regard. Still I couldn’t fault the way, calmly if gruffly, reorganised the search and rescue efforts in response to the building’s collapse. The way he…  
  
Wait.  
  
There were people still alive in there?  
  
My heart leaped into my mouth, and I found myself standing up straighter, my body shaking with adrenaline now, rather than pain, practically vibrating with the need to take action. To go out there and do something.  
  
To try to atone for my fuck up as much as I could.  
  
For the moment, though, frustratingly, it looked like I wasn’t going anywhere.  
  
“Not until the rubble’s settled,” Lieutenant Simmons told me firmly, but not unkindly, when I offered my help. “I know time is of the essence, but rushing in prematurely is just going to get more people killed.”  
  
I flinched, the protest I’d been about to make turning to ashes on my tongue as his words hit me like a smack in the face. I swallowed hard, my throat still dry despite the water.  
  
“Understood, Sir,” I said. And then, before I could stop myself, I found myself adding, “I don’t know what caused the explosion. It didn’t start within the structure itself. I… I think there must have been something burning inside the apartment, possibly for a while, and I only sensed it when it spread to something that counted as part of the building. But there must have been something pretty volatile in there for it to go up like that, and-” Horrified, I made myself stop blithering like an idiot. “Sorry, Sir,” I muttered, my face burning under my armour. “I didn’t mean to ramble.”  
  
I hoped he didn’t think I was making excuses.  
  
“You weren’t,” he said, mendaciously, his tone almost… gentle. Or, at least, as close as it could probably get. Lowering his voice, he added, “No one’s blaming you, Talos.”  
  
That couldn’t be true. Anyway, I was blaming myself. But Lieutenant Simmons had better things to do than reassure a fuck up like me, so I thanked him politely and let him get back to it.  
  
I just… I didn’t know what I’d done. The utilities had been shut off, so it was unlikely to be a gas main explosion or an electrical fire. I hadn’t atomised anything. At least, I didn’t think I had, and I really didn’t want to think about the possibility that my power could do something like **that** without me knowing about it. In fact, I didn’t want to think about this at all. Maybe I should turn my thoughts to something more pleasant.  
  
Like how much I hurt right now.  
  
Sighing softly, I took another sip of water and then capped the bottle again, trying to hand it back to Spider.  
  
“No, that’s okay,” he told me, sounding amused. “I think you need it more than me.” He rapped his knuckles lightly on the faceplate of his helmet and I sighed, almost welcoming the flare of irritation his action caused.  
  
A distraction was a distraction, after all.  
  
“I wish **my** helmet was properly sealed,” I grumbled quietly, using a loop of metal to stow my water bottle out of the way. “But apparently that would look too ‘threatening,’ or some shit.”  
  
Not that I was bitter.  
  
“Wouldn’t want that, huh?” Spider murmured. It sounded like he was trying not to laugh. I narrowed my eyes at him.  
  
“If it would make people think twice about fucking with me, then I’d be happy with downright terrifying,” I informed him acidly. “But it’s not up to me.”  
  
While there was wisdom in letting yourself be underestimated, there was also a whole fuck of a lot to be said for the value of intimidation. Given that I was already rocking the full armour look, I honestly didn’t see why the image and costume people were so reluctant to let me take that to its logical conclusion. I mean, it wasn’t like I was ever going to look cute, or cuddly, or whatever. Thank fuck. So why not go for broke?  
  
Spider did laugh then, and I glowered at him resentfully, only just managing to stop myself whining pathetically about the unfairness of it all. Because it was unfair! Shadow Stalker and Clockblocker both had full face masks. And Shadow Stalker’s whole look was practically ripped from the ‘sartorial selections to scare seven shades of shit out of your nemeses’ playbook.  
  
So why the fuck was it so important that I seem ‘approachable?’  
  
“If it’s any consolation,” Spider said lightly. “Now I’ve what you can do, I think you’re pretty damn terrifying.”  
  
I tried to respond in kind, dryly thanking him for the compliment, but the words stuck in my throat.  
  
‘You’ll be fucking terrifying,’ Dad had promised me, although it had sounded more like a threat.  
  
But that wasn’t… I hadn’t meant…  
  
I’d been exaggerating for comic effect, that was all; trying to focus on lighter things.  
  
I should’ve just stuck with my original plan of keeping my mouth shut.  
  
As if summoned by my act of foot-in-mouth, Ms Price materialised out of the dust cloud like an angry djinn, fixing Spider with a forbidding expression.  
  
“This isn’t an appropriate topic of conversation,” she said, her voice quiet but stern.  
  
“Sorry,” Spider drawled. He didn’t sound overly concerned by her censure, but…  
  
“It was my fault, Ms Price,” I said, against my better judgement. “I brought it up.” I tried not to wilt as she turned her disapproving gaze on me.  
  
“We’ll discuss this later,” she said, ominously.  
  
Actually, no. Her tone was actually pretty neutral, all things considered, but her words sure as shit sounded ominous to me. I tried not to wonder how harsh a ‘discussion’ it would be. It was probably weak of me, but I really hoped that whatever disciplinary action I’d earned would wait until I’d recovered from this fucking migraine.  
  
I nodded. “I understand.”  
  
She studied me for a moment, her sharp eyes no doubt cataloguing every single flaw and fault in my appearance. I stood to attention, self-consciously drawing up my own tally. There were the wires I was trailing like a marionette that broke its strings and ran away. Plus the fact that my armour’s bronze finish was now marbled with steel and aluminium and whatever the fuck else I’d claimed over the past… however long it had been. My resolution was so fucked right now that I couldn’t even tell if I still had a symbol on my chest, let alone what state it was in. And I was probably covered in dust.  
  
In short, I was a mess.  
  
But, rather than censuring me, or telling me to sort myself out, she simply asked, “How are you doing?”  
  
I wondered if her question was an expression of concern, or a request for a status report from an asset. In either case, my answer was the same.  
  
“I’m fine, thank you.”  
  
What else could I say?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Talos, stop.” Vista’s voice was grim.  
  
I glanced at her in confusion even as my metal stilled, trying not to feel relief at the reprieve.  
  
“What’s wrong?” I asked. I knew she wouldn’t have called a halt without good reason, especially when every second counted.  
  
A quiet sigh escaped her lips, and her small shoulders seemed to slump slightly as she clawed a few strands of hair back off her face. “There’s no point.”  
  
Oh.  
  
I had to swallow before I could speak. “I’ll call it in.”  
  
She nodded sharply. “Next ones’s twelve to fifteen metres to my two o’ clock,” she said, matter of factly. “Follow my lead.”  
  
I nodded, collapsing the half-completed scaffold and withdrawing my metal from the pile of rubble. A cairn, now, I supposed. I uttered a silent prayer as I contacted Lieutenant Simmons.  
  
“Target deceased, Sir,” I informed him. “Moving on to the next one.” A terse acknowledgement was his only response, but then what else was there to be said? This poor bastard was beyond saving, but the next one on the short and shrinking list might not be.  
  
All we could do was keep moving.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I was almost surprised not to hear my father’s voice saying ‘again’ as I gritted my teeth and exerted the overtaxed muscle of my power. It felt like every single one of my nerve endings was lit up with pain, but that wasn’t important. The important thing was that my metal did what it was damn well told, insinuating itself through nooks and crannies to bind a precariously teetering pile of rocks and rubble into something a bit more stable.  
  
“Done,” I said. My voice sounded weird and echoey, almost like it came from a great distance away, but I was pretty sure that was just my defective ears. The mosquito-like whining had been joined by a veritable greek chorus of hissing and popping sounds, overlaid on a muted but incessant ringing that reminded me of an ancient rotary phone.  
  
Fucking migraines.  
  
There was movement in what remained of my peripheral vision as the experts made a cautious approach. They did… stuff. I wasn’t sure what, honestly. Testing the ground, I guessed. Coming up with a plan. Whatever they were doing, it didn’t take long. And then, thankfully, one of them told me what to do.  
  
It was pathetic just how grateful I was for having orders to follow.  
  
I held my breath briefly as I carefully shifted some pieces of debris and disintegrated others.  
  
It was kind of weird how much harder it was to shake of the rush I got from ripping stuff apart than to power through even the worst pain. Then again, I didn’t have an awful lot of experience with… bliss. Maybe it would get easier, in time. Maybe the effect would fade.  
  
Maybe.  
  
Vista plied her own abilities alongside mine, carefully widening the gaps I made. It was kind of funny how feeling the topography change in ways that didn’t make any goddamn sense was actually starting to feel kind of… normal? I guess it just went to show — you really could get used to just about anything.  
  
There was a sudden flurry of activity, and I realised with a start that the target had been retrieved. There was… That was a lot of blood.  
  
A lot of blood.  
  
I watched as the injured person — I couldn’t even tell if they were male or female — were turned over to the paramedics and whisked away. Being moved undoubtedly wasn’t the best thing for them right now, but it couldn’t be helped. They couldn’t exactly stay where they were. Anyway, the paramedics knew what they were doing.  
  
I took a deep breath, reclaiming my metal as soon as I was given the go-ahead.  
  
It was a couple of moments before I was sure I had my breathing under control enough to speak without my voice shaking and, even then, I didn’t have the energy for more than a couple of words.  
  
“Where now?”  
  
“This way,” Vista said, gesturing. And if her own voice was leaden with weariness, and if she stumbled slightly as we made our way to the next target, then I certainly wasn’t going to say anything. What would be the point? She wouldn’t thank me for bringing it up, and it wasn’t like we could take a break.  
  
‘You don’t rest until the mission is done. You hear me, girl?’  
  
 _I hear you,_ I found myself thinking. Sometimes, I thought I’d always fucking hear him. But that was a problem for another time.  
  
For the moment, I had a mission to complete.  
  
That was the only thing that mattered.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I watched paramedics rush away the latest target, blinking as I tried in vain to clear the spots from my vision. My pulse picked up at the sudden, worrying realisation that I was mostly blind in my left eye, and the stabbing pain in my head picked up right along with it. I tried fruitlessly to calm down.  
  
 _It’ll be okay,_ I tried to reassure myself. It had happened before, after all, the day I triggered, and a couple of times more during Hell Week. My sight had returned perfectly on each of those occasions, so there was no reason to think it wouldn’t do so this time. I just needed a good night’s sleep, that was all.  
  
Although… maybe I should stop by the infirmary when I got back to the PRT HQ. Just in case.  
  
I guessed I’d see how I felt when I got back.  
  
Vista said something, but I couldn’t quite make out the words over the racket in my ears. I shook my head in an attempt to clear it, and promptly regretted the action as the migraine spitefully dug its claws deeper into my brain.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I said. “What did you say?”  
  
“That was the last one,” she told me, her voice flat.  
  
I frowned. “But I thought you said there was-“  
  
“No,” she interrupted. “Not any more.”  
  
“Shit,” I breathed. Another person dead. Another mark on my tally. How many was that now? How many lives had my fuck up cost?  
  
How many people had I killed?  
  
Vista said something else while I struggled to get my emotions back under control, and then I heard her voice over the comms. Reporting in, I realised.  
  
“Thanks, Vista,” Lieutenant Simmons replied. “And you too, Talos. Come back to the command point.”  
  
We acknowledged the order and I set about reclaiming my metal. Vista glanced over towards three black blurs standing a short distance away. Spider, Chalk and OB watching over us.  
  
“Why do we even need PRT escorts?” I wondered. “It’s not like we can’t take care of ourselves.”  
  
And it wasn’t like Spider had exactly done a great job of stopping some asshole from shoving a camera in my face.  
  
Vista glanced around, presumably making sure there was no one else within earshot. “Regulations,” she said, the word practically dripping with contempt. “It’s the same reason Clockblocker isn’t here with us.”  
  
“Oh?” At the time, I’d been too flustered by the situation to wonder about which of my other teammates were taking part in this operation, but now I came to think about it, I could see how his abilities might have come in handy.  
  
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s already gone over his hours this week. The Youth Guard rep would’ve pitched a fit.”  
  
Her mouth twisted in the same moue of distaste she’d made when Lieutenant Simmons had called her ‘little lady.’ I frowned.  
  
“Don’t you like Ms Grant?” I asked.  
  
Vista shrugged. “She’s okay, I guess. But she doesn’t really understand what it’s like out here.” She sighed. “That reminds me. She’ll almost certainly want to talk to us about this, just to make sure no one from the PRT put any ‘undue pressure’ on us or whatever.”  
  
My eyebrows rose a little at that.  
  
“That should be a short conversation, then,” I murmured. I certainly didn’t feel pressured. Lieutenant Lysowski hadn’t even ordered me to come out here, although I wasn’t sure why.  
  
“Hmm,” Vista said noncommittally. “Are you ready to go?”  
  
“Just about,” I said, having finally managed to wrestle my metal into submission. Thankfully, I only meant that figuratively, not literally.  
  
Gathering my strength, such as it was, I took a step, cursing under my breath as my armour didn’t flex quite right, my knee twisting painfully.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Vista asked.  
  
Maybe I hadn’t cursed a little louder than I’d thought.  
  
“Nothing,” I said, my voice tight. “Just wishing I’d had more practice with the armour, that’s all.”  
  
Fortunately, Vista seemed to take my answer at face value.  
  
“At least we don’t have to rush any more,” she said.  
  
I flinched at the reminder.  
  
“Guess not.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The pins and needles sensation had gotten worse, I tried not to note. In addition, my skin felt hypersensitive to every little irritation, raw and tingling like my clothes were made of sandpaper. It didn’t help I tried to ignore it; tried instead to concentrate on the fact that the end was in sight.  
  
One foot in front of the other. That was all I had to do. If I could take one step, I could take another step, and another, and another, each one bringing me closer to the van. Once I got to the van, I could sit down; recover my strength a little before I had to drag myself to my feet again. And then it would just be one foot in front of the other again until I got to my room.  
  
Or maybe the infirmary.  
  
Maybe.  
  
“Hey,” Spider drawled, I thought. “Looks like the heroes are here.” That certainly got my attention. I looked up, squinting in the direction he indicated. I could see… a tall red blur and a slightly shorter white and grey blur. Assault and Battery, most likely.  
  
I wondered what they were doing here. Were they going to help with the clear up? Was there more more trouble on the way? Were they just passing through?  
  
Fuck, was I going to have to make conversation with two Protectorate capes?  
  
“Better late than never,” Swan observed, his words pulling me out of my incipient panic. His tone light was enough that he could be joking, but with enough of an edge that I thought he probably wasn’t.  
  
That was… interesting.  
  
“What are we, chopped liver?” Vista muttered, her voice tight with annoyance.  
  
“Sorry, didn’t mean it like that,” Spider was quick to assure her. “Should’ve said ‘Protectorate heroes.’ My bad.”  
  
Speaking of the Protectorate, the two blurs had now drawn close enough that I could actually focus on them with my one good eye. Well, my one not completely fucked eye, at any rate. As I’d suspected, it was Assault and Battery.  
  
I told myself to stay calm.  
  
Anyway, there was no point in getting worked up. They almost certainly had things to attend to. I doubted they had the time to stand around and chat. I doubted there would be more than a brief exchange of greetings before we went our separate way.  
  
Except… now they were stopping. And, apparently, so were we.  
  
I tried not to slump as my vision of the promised land seemed to recede into the distance.  
  
And by ‘promised land,’ I meant my room. Specifically, my bed. What I wanted more than anything in the whole world right now was to lie down in a darkened room and just… let the world go away for a while.  
  
Actually, no. More than that, I wanted to have not fucked up and gotten people killed. But resting in silence and darkness was definitely up there.  
  
In any case, greetings were being exchanged, so I should probably pay attention in case I was expected to actually say something.  
  
“Good to see you, Battery,” OB was saying, and I was surprised to hear what sounded like genuine warmth in his voice as he greeted her. In contract, though, the next word he spoke was practically sub-zero. “Assault.”  
  
Ouch.  
  
“Good to see you too, man,” Assault drawled cheerfully, his mouth twisting up into a lopsided smile. And maybe he was just that oblivious, but somehow I doubted it.  
  
Battery glanced briefly in Assault’s direction before turning back to OB. “Wish it was under better circumstances,” she said, her tone serious.  
  
There was a general murmur of agreement.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Spider wanted to know. I was a little surprised he just came out and asked that, but I was interested in the answer.  
  
“Patrolling,” Battery replied succinctly. “We were in the area, so we thought we’d stop by and see if there’s anything we can do to help.”  
  
Swan made a noise that could have been a snort, but then he went on to cough and clear his throat. Maybe the dust was getting to him.  
  
Yeah… no.  
  
“Gotta fly the flag, and all that,” Assault murmured. Battery made an abortive movement towards him, but then stopped.  
  
Ms Price stepped forward, smiling in a way that could cut have cut steel. “Well, don’t let us keep you from it,” she said brightly. “We were just on our way back to the PRT HQ.”  
  
“Oh, hi Petra,” Battery said. “I didn’t see you there.”  
  
“Yeah, it wouldn’t do to keep the Wards up past their bedtime,” Assault said, nodding sagely. I glowered at him before I could think better of it. A glance at Vista showed her wearing a scowl of her own.  
  
“Hello, Assault,” Vista said, her tone polite, if a little stiff. “Hi Battery.”  
  
“Hey there,” Assault replied. He flashed her a grin, and then turned his attention to me. “And you’re Talos, right?”  
  
I raised my eyebrows, a little surprised he knew that already. I guessed it made sense for Protectorate capes in the field to be briefed about Ward deployments, though. It was always good to know where your allies were. Less chance of friendly fire incidents that way.  
  
“That’s right,” I said. I hesitated a moment and then added. “Circumstances excepted, it’s good to meet you both.”  
  
It was a real struggle not to call the pair of them Sir and Ma’am, but, well, Vista hadn’t, and I was sick and tired of people looking at me strangely for being respectful. In any case, they weren’t in my chain of command; not at the moment, anyway. OB was my direct superior here.  
  
“It’s always good to have another hero in the ranks,” Battery said warmly, giving me what seemed like a genuine smile. I returned it a little uncertainly, wondering if she really bought into the whole ‘hero and villain’ pantomime, or if she was just good at playing the game. From the way Assault’s mouth twitched, coupled with his statement about ‘flying the flag,’ I had a hunch that his views were somewhat more… nuanced.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, because it kind of felt like I should say something.  
  
“We’re just going to have a quick word with our fellow heroes here,” Assault said, seemingly addressing his words to the group as a whole, rather than to anyone in particular. Before anyone could object, he turned on his heel and strode away, beckoning me and Vista to follow him.  
  
Vista and I exchanged a look, but then she shrugged and walked towards him. I followed slowly, clenching my teeth as the metal of my armour dug painfully into my skin, my movements feeling clumsy and awkward. I couldn’t believe I’d actually managed to jog earlier. Right now, just staying upright was taking a ridiculous amount of focus.  
  
And why was it so fucking warm? I really hoped I wasn’t coming down with a cold or something.  
  
“We won’t be long,” I heard Battery say, apologetically. A few moments later, the four of us were huddled together a short distance away from Aleph squad and Ms Price. Not enough for actual privacy, but enough for the semblance of it, I guessed.  
  
But then Assault said, “Vista, can you do your thing?”  
  
She didn’t reply verbally, but I felt the ground stretch beneath us, and then the semblance of privacy became the real deal as any potential eavesdroppers receded into the distance.  
  
Huh. Useful trick.  
  
“What’s this about?” Vista asked, her voice tight with suspicion. I had to agree with the sentiment. This was weird.  
  
“A couple of things,” Battery said. “First, we wanted to make sure you were both doing okay.” Her voice softened with sympathy, and she added. “It sounds like this was a bad one.”  
  
Vista huffed out a frustrated-sounding breath. “I didn’t realise you’d decided to go into counselling, **Mom** ,” she muttered.  
  
“Vista.” Battery sounded reproachful.  
  
Vista’s lips tightened, and she met Battery’s gaze, visor to mask. Even though I couldn’t see their eyes, I had the feeling that neither of them was blinking. The silence stretched, tense and awkward, and then Vista sighed softly, her stiff posture unbending just a little.  
  
I was honestly shocked that she was the one who broke first.  
  
“I’m fine,” she said, and grimaced. “Or… I will be.” The steel returned to her voice as she added. “You know this wasn’t my first rodeo.”  
  
Completely out of the blue, I found myself wondering if Kid Win had ever taken part in search and rescue efforts; if he’d ever had to face the prospect of people dying because he wasn’t good enough to save them. The thought of it made me feel… weird, my stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with the fucking migraine.  
  
It was… I didn’t want Chris to go through that.  
  
I didn’t want him to feel the way I did right now.  
  
What the fuck did that mean? Was I getting soft?  
  
“I know that,” Battery said, apparently unfazed by Vista’s clear irritation. “But you know that’s not the point.” She paused for a moment, a small and slightly sad smile flickering briefly over her face. “Well, you know where I am if you ever need to talk.”  
  
Vista grimaced again. “Between the Youth Guard rep, and whichever counsellor they eventually force me to see, I’m pretty sure I’ll be all talked out.”  She sounded only slightly begrudging as she added, “But thanks for the offer.” She looked my way. “Just a heads up,” she said. “They’re supposed to make us see a counsellor after something like this,” she said, waving a hand in the general direction of the collapsed tower block.”  
  
I frowned. “Supposed to?” I asked cautiously.  
  
“The Ward therapists are a little… oversubscribed,” Battery told me. “There aren’t really enough of them, so there’s usually something of a backlog for appointments.”  
  
“Maybe I should suggest to Armsmaster that they take a couple of ours,” Assault quipped. Battery raised a hand slightly in what looked like a warning gesture, and he took half a step away from her, smirking.  
  
Vista ignored the whole interaction to ask me, “That reminds me, has your initial assessment even been scheduled yet?”  
  
“Next week,” I said flatly, suppressing a flutter of unease. The absolute last fucking thing I wanted to do was to talk to some… some therapist. I had way too many secrets to keep to be comfortable with the idea, especially given my propensity for foot in mouth syndrome. And Director Piggot had ordered me to cooperate fully, which was an order I was more than likely going to have to disobey.  
  
“It’s really not that bad,” Battery said, sounding part-amused, and part-frustrated. She shook her head, the frustrated note intensifying as she muttered, “Honestly, to hear some of you talk, you’d think counselling was a punishment.”  
  
“You’re adorable,” Assault told her, chuckling.  
  
“Ass,” Battery muttered.  
  
There was something familiar-seeming about their interaction, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  
  
“Jokes aside, though,” Assault said, and I was startled that his tone had actually sobered enough to suit the words. I was even more startled when he turned to address me. “How are you doing, Talos? Pretty rough first outing, right?”  
  
I stared at him for a moment, caught completely off-guard by the question, then I forcibly pulled myself together, standing up as straight as I could, ignoring the way even the slight movement made my stomach simultaneously drop through the ground and rise up into my throat, the world wavering as if I was looking through water.  
  
“I’m doing okay,” I said, which wasn’t technically incorrect. After all, I was still upright and mostly functional, which was close enough for government work. “Anyway,” I found myself adding, “this wasn’t my first rodeo either.”  
  
“Okay, now you’ve checked up on both of us,” Vista said, almost talking over my last word. “We probably shouldn’t keep Aleph squad waiting too much longer, so what was the other thing you wanted to talk to us about?”  
  
That was right. Battery had said ‘a couple of things,’ hadn’t she?  
  
Assault and Battery exchanged a look. His shoulders twitched in a slight shrug; one of her hands gestured minutely. A question asked and answered without having to resort to actual words. I could see why Lance thought they were fucking. Whether or not that was true, it was clear they were close. In any case, after another moment of silent communication, Battery cleared her throat and looked directly at me.  
  
“Purity,” she said, simply.  
  
I froze. “She was long gone when we got here,” I ventured cautiously.  
  
“I know,” Battery said. “But…” She drew in an audible breath. “I had an interesting talk with Triumph earlier, and he said-“  
  
“Is it true that she split from the Empire because she broke up with Kaiser?” Assault interrupted impatiently.  
  
“That’s what I heard,” I said cautiously.  
  
“Wait… You came here for gossip?” Vista asked. She sounded confused, and more than a little disapproving.  
  
“No, of course not,” Battery said quickly. “Like I said, we were in the area on patrol. But since you’re here and all…” She shrugged, seeming a little self-conscious. “Two birds, one stone.”  
  
“Efficiency!” Assault proclaimed, in a passable imitation of Armsmaster’s voice.  
  
I tried not to wince at such a blatant and inappropriate display of disrespect for his commanding officer.  
  
Battery shoved him lightly, keeping her gaze on me. “There’s a chance we might run into her,” she explained. “So I thought it was worth seeing if you knew anything else that isn’t in her file.” She shrugged, giving me a slightly embarrassed-looking smile. “My dad always says to chase down any possible lead, no matter how small.”  
  
“Because any one of them could blow the case wide open,” Assault sing-songed. He shook his head and grinned at me, ignoring what I was pretty sure was a death glare that Battery levelled at the back of his head. “That’s what she’s hoping for, anyway. Me, I’m totally here for the gossip.”  
  
For a moment, I couldn’t help wondering if Battery’s father had trained her the way mine had trained me. Had I finally met someone who wouldn’t look at me like I was a freak because they didn’t understand the value of hard work and discipline?  
  
But that was a thought for another time.  
  
I studied the pair of them for a moment, choosing my words carefully.  
  
“I’m not sure I know anything that can help you fight her,” I said.  
  
“That wasn’t quite…” Battery trailed off, pursing her lips. “I meant more along the lines of, is there anything you know about her as a person?”  
  
Wait… was she asking me if I knew Purity’s civilian identity?  
  
Before I could figure out a way to ask that question without even hinting that I might actually be able to provide the information in question, Assault spoke.  
  
“Leverage,” he explained, helpfully.  
  
Oh.  
  
Well, why didn’t Battery just say that in the first place?  
  
I opened my mouth to speak, only to find myself shivering uncontrollably inside my armour. Fuck, it was cold all of a sudden.  
  
Shit. I thought I might actually be coming down with a cold or something, just in time for me to start at Arcadia. As I forced my teeth to stop chattering, I made a mental note to drink more orange juice.  
  
“I did hear one thing,” I said slowly, “but I don’t know… I mean, it’s just hearsay, really, and even if it’s true, I don’t know how much use it’ll be.”  
  
“That’s alright,” Battery said encouragingly. “What is it you heard?”  
  
I hesitated for real, not just as part of an attempt to sell that I really had just picked this up from Empire gossip mongers and wasn’t certain as to its veracity.  
  
“I heard that Purity… that she has a kid,” I said softly.  
  
“Kaiser’s?” Assault asked, sounding fascinated, but also kind of… grim.  
  
I shrugged. “That’s what some of the rumours say. But, like I said, it’s just hearsay.” A wave of dizziness hit from out of nowhere, and for a brief, horrifying moment, the only thing keeping me upright was my armour. Even more horrifying that that, though, was hearing myself say, “I’m not sure threatening her kid is the best way to get her to stand down, though.”  
  
“We’re not going to threaten a child!” Battery practically yelped. “What do you you take us for? We’re not **villains**.”  
  
Okay, apparently she really did buy into the labels. That was interesting to know.  
  
“Assault said you wanted leverage,” I said slowly, confused.  
  
Battery said something else, but it sounded like her words were coming from a great distance, and I couldn’t quite make them out. It was so fucking hard to focus right now.  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” I said politely, or tried to, the words instead emerging as a slurred mumble. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry,” I began, only to break off as I noticed something odd. “I think my face has gone numb,” I said, surprised.  
  
“What?” Battery asked, sounding worried. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?”  
  
“I’m… fine,” I said, enunciating the words as best as I could. “Just migraine, that’s all.”  
  
“A migraine?” Assault asked. “Is that what you said?”  
  
I frowned. Was I still slurring my words? I tried again, concentrating as hard as I could on speaking clearly.  
  
“Thinker headache,” I said. “Happened before. Will be fine.”  
  
“You said your face was numb,” Vista pointed out.  
  
“Blind in one eye too,” I said, and frowned. “Almost both, now.”  
  
There was a moment’s silence, and then:  
  
“Vista,” Assault said quietly.  
  
“On it,” she said, and the road snapped back to its usual size.  
  
“Feels weird when you do that,” I noted, or thought I did. There were voices, low and urgent sounding, and then the ground compressed again. I thought I might have zoned out for a moment or two, because when I focused again, there was a blurry figure looming out of the gloom in front of me. I tried to move into a defensive stance, but only managed to almost twist an ankle.  
  
“Talos!” the figure barked, and I flinched as I recognised OB’s voice, scrambling to stand to attention.  
  
“Yes, Sir?” I said, wondering what I’d done to make him sound so angry.  
  
“Can you move?” he demanded.  
  
“Of course, Sir,” I said, and even though my heart was thudding in my chest and I kept thinking I could hear the sound of leather sliding over cloth, could feel fingers tightening around my throat, I was more than a little offended by his question. It was just a fucking migraine, after all. It wasn’t like it was anything serious.  
  
“If you’re blind and your face is numb, then it’s serious,” he said, and my useless eyes flew wide open as I realised I’d actually said that last part out loud.  
  
“I intended no disrespect, Sir,” I hastened to assure him, but I wasn’t entirely sure if I actually spoke the words aloud, or if they were just in my head.  
  
The only thing OB said was, “Into the van. Now.” To my mortification, obeying that order proved to be a struggle, my power having apparently decided to fight me every step of the way. But I managed it eventually. Before I’d even caught my breath, though, OB had another order for me: “Take off your armour.”  
  
Was I being punished for something? I’d already had to abandon the metal I’d claimed from the cars. Now they were making me give up my armour? But an order was an order. I couldn’t disobey an order. I… I didn’t think I had the strength to endure being disciplined right now.  
  
Fuck, I was pathetic.  
  
I trembled convulsively as I stood there, bereft. Exposed. Vulnerable.  
  
I couldn’t… couldn’t think straight.  
  
I couldn’t…  
  
“I think she’s bleeding,” I heard someone say.  
  
 _Yas is going to be so pissed off at me,_ I thought fuzzily.  
  
And then the world went away.


	42. Aphenphosmphobia 3.15

Awareness returned in dribs and drabs, like the slow drip of coffee into a waiting carafe.  
  
Fuck, I could really do with a coffee right about now. I wanted — needed — it so badly that I could practically smell it. I imagined the bitter-edged richness of it on my tongue; the pleasantly-just-this-side-of-scalding sting of it burning all the way down to my gut. It seemed so real that, for the briefest moment, I could’ve sworn my nerves actually tingled with the distinctive buzz of a caffeine high. I experienced that so very rarely these days, though. The nearest I’d gotten lately had been from the pot I’d made after staying up half the night playing stupid video games with Dennis; the pot he’d called ‘rocket fuel masquerading as coffee.’ Heh. He was such a wimp sometimes. Maybe that was why he’d seemed so comfortable wearing a skirt.  
  
A very short skirt.  
  
A very, very short skirt.  
  
Nnnnnope, not going there anytime soon. Or ever. Not ever ever. Just… head that train of thought off at the pass. Hit the brakes, switch it to a siding, blow up the tracks. Whatever it took. Send it careening down into the ravine, passengers screaming and wailing as they hurtled towards their doom.  
  
Wait…   
  
My breath caught in my throat, some vast, nameless feeling pressing on my chest; a sudden sensation like a fist wrapping around my heart and squeezing.  
  
No, that was… that was bad. No passengers. No one one who would get hurt. No one who would get… worse than hurt. The train was obviously empty. It had to be empty. But there’d still have to be a driver, right? Unless it was computer-controlled or something. Remote operated maybe, like with that tinker who made drones and probes and things. What was his name? R-something? I remembered it made me think of dogs.  
  
Rover! That was it.  
  
I wondered idly if there were any tinker-tech trains. I bet Squealer could build one, although it would undoubtedly be really fucking ugly, with bits sticking out every which way. Probably wouldn’t need tracks, though. Then again, would it even be a train at that point?  
  
Maybe this metaphor had gotten a little off-track.  
  
Heh. ‘Off-track.’ The train of thought was obviously a tinker train, then. Except then it would’ve been about Chris, not Dennis, and…  
  
What was I thinking again?  
  
Fuck, I needed coffee.  
  
I shifted drowsily in my bed and stifled a groan as my head throbbed with the movement. Belatedly, I realised that the pain had been there for a while now. In fact, it had been lurking at the edges of my awareness ever since the light of consciousness had first started to filter down through the murky depths of my slumber. It just hadn’t seemed important. Now that I’d acknowledged it, though, that apparently served as an invitation for it to shove its way rudely into the forefront of my mind. Like some pushy asshole fighting their way to the head of a line instead of just joining the end of it, like a civilised person.  
  
I fucking hated it when people did that. Queues existed for a reason, assholes! Just wait in line like the rest of us. You couldn’t just go swanning around like the rules didn’t apply to you. Without rules, there would be utter chaos. There’d be anarchy. And if this did turn into a free for all, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that they’d be among the first ones to go down. In fact, I was petty enough that I would make goddamn sure they were. Motherfuckers!  
  
Oh, ow. My poor head.  
  
Irritation made my heart beat faster, which apparently wasn’t good for the headache. Or, no, it was excellent for the headache. The headache liked that a lot; liked it so much it was practically jumping for joy. And it was apparently having so much fun that it woke up a few of its friends and invited them along to join the party. By my count, that included a tender knee, an aching ankle, a sore shoulder, and a small scattering of minor abrasions and light bruises. The pain in my head, though, was easily the worst of the lot.  
  
 _Fucking migraines,_ I thought wearily. _The gift that keeps on giving…_  
  
Somewhat glumly, I noted that my workout really was not going to be fun this morning. Like, the opposite of fun. Anti-fun? Maybe… Perhaps I should… take it a little easy in the gym? Do something not so strenuous, possibly? After all, I wouldn’t want to… collapse… again.  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
Again?  
  
With that thought, memory crashed over me like a tidal wave, the shock of it jolting me the rest of the way into wakefulness. The last thing I remembered was someone saying something about bleeding and then… nothing. So, how had I got here? For that matter, where even was here? Because I was pretty damn sure I wasn’t in my room.  
  
I opened my eyes a crack and saw nothing but darkness.  
  
I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I panicked.  
  
A moment later, I realised that there was something covering my eyes.  
  
The resulting jolt of relief was short-lived, though, rapidly drowned by a whole new flood of panic, even stronger than before. Why was I wearing a blindfold? What was wrong with my eyes that they had to be covered? And, just as worrying, why the flying fuck hadn’t I even noticed it until now? To an extent, I’d learned how to ‘tune out’ what my power told my about things like clothing and bedding, etc, so as not to get distracted. But… a blindfold? I should’ve flagged that for attention right away. Just like I should have registered the narrow tube stuck into my arm, and the things — sensors? — taped to my chest.  
  
Was something… Had I broken my power? Was that even possible?  
  
I cautiously extended my senses, loosely closing my figurative grasp around the objects in contact with my skin _(polyethylene tubing leading to a sealed bag of mostly water which was supported by a metal frame; sensors connected to leads connected an electronic device…)_ only to find myself forced to bite back a whimper as my headache spiked sharply. Reflexively slamming my barriers back in place — such as they were — I made myself take slow, deep, even breaths until the pain subsided to its previous, more manageable level.  
  
 _Don’t panic,_ I told myself, uselessly. _Don’t._  
  
It wouldn’t help, and it would only make the headache worse. Whatever was wrong, I would figure it out. Carefully. Methodically. And then I’d figure out how to fix it. For the moment, though, I needed to finish taking stock of my situation.  
  
Okay. I was in a bed, although not my bed. I was blindfolded, but not restrained, and I was hooked up to an IV drip and a heart monitor. The last thing I remembered was collapsing. So… I was most likely in the PRT infirmary.  
  
I thought about getting up, or maybe calling out, but caution kept me still and quiet, listening to the sounds of the room. Other than the somewhat irritating beep of the heart monitor — and I really couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed that before — there wasn’t a lot to hear, which made it easy to zero in on the low murmur of voices. They were too quiet for me to make out any of the words, but it sounded like there were three speakers; two female, one male. Before I could try to identify them though, their conversation came to an end, replaced by a single set of briskly approaching footsteps. A few moments later, I was unsurprised to hear the rattle and swish of a curtain being drawn back.  
  
“Talos? Are you awake?” I knew this voice: this was the doctor who’d examined me on the day I’d joined the Wards. Apparently, the protocol was to use my cape name, now that I actually had one.  
  
I felt a brief, stupid compulsion not to answer, to pretend I was still asleep, but I shook it off. Besides, the heart monitor would undoubtedly give the lie to any pretensions of unconsciousness, if it hadn’t already.  
  
“Yes, Dr Hart,” I said, my voice cracking a little on the words. Fuck, my throat was sore. “I just woke up.”  
  
“And how are you feeling?” she asked. There was another rattle and swish; presumably she’d closed the curtain again behind her. I tried to work out where she was standing relative to me, but got distracted by wondering if she was wearing a another fuzzy animal-patterned top over her scrubs, or if she was properly attired in regulation grey this time.  
  
 _Focus, idiot,_ I told myself, sternly.  
  
Doing so was harder than it should have been, but I was nothing if not determined. I considered her question for a moment.  
  
“Better than yesterday, I think,” I ventured carefully. The headache was still there and, as if to make up for fact that the input from my power was dulled, my skin was uncomfortably hypersensitive. The nausea seemed to have gone, though, thank fuck, and my hearing was more or less back to normal. But it would be hard to judge my condition for sure until I actually tried to get up.  
  
And, of course, took the blindfold off.  
  
There was another flare of panic but, just like before, I forced it back down.  
  
Dr Hart made a noncommittal ‘hmm’ noise. “I’m going to examine you now.” A dry note entered her voice. “I would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t respond violently.”  
  
What?  
  
“Of course not,” I hastened to assure her, horrified. “Did I…? Um…”  
  
What the fuck had I done?  
  
“Apparently, you roused briefly on your way in,” she said, matter-of-factly. “In your disoriented state you mistook attempts at first aid for an attack and responded accordingly.” The beeping of the heart monitor sped up a little, betraying the spike of adrenaline that lanced through me. “There was no real harm done, though,” she added quickly, which honestly wasn’t all that reassuring. ‘No real harm,’ after all, wasn’t exactly the same thing as ‘no harm at all.’  
  
So… who had I hurt? And how badly?  
  
“Do you know-” I started to ask, but she cut me off.  
  
“I wasn’t on duty at the time,” she said brusquely. “I don’t know the details. Like I said, though, there was no real harm done, so I suggest you try not to worry about it.”  
  
That was easier said than fucking done, but I did my level best to comply as she commenced the examination, obediently following her instructions and enduring the apparently medically necessary poking and prodding. I forced myself to answer all her questions as best as I could, despite the fact that I had to actively fight the urge to conceal my weakness from her. She was the expert here, after all, and I… I was worried. No matter how much my instincts were telling me I should dissemble, I knew that doing so could actively harm my chances of a full recovery. So I bit the bullet and told the absolute truth, even going so far as to volunteer information when it seemed necessary. Dr Hart still seemed sceptical of my answers, though. At least, that was the only reason I could think of why she often repeated the same question or test a number of different ways before she actually seemed satisfied with my response.  
  
In any event, after what felt like forever, even though it probably wasn’t all that long, she finally spoke the words I’d been both longing for and dreading.  
  
“I’m going to remove the blindfold now,” she told me. “Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.”  
  
“Yes, Dr Hart,” I said quietly, pleased that my voice remained level. Not that it mattered with the way the beeping of the heart monitor sped up, telling tales like the fucking snitch that it was.  
  
In any case, the blindfold was removed in short order, although I could still feel a piece of cloth stretched over the upper part of my face. A mask, I assumed. Dr Hart, of course, already knew what I looked like from the earlier, rather thorough examination, but there were at least two other people here. And just because the medical staff were, for obvious reasons, cleared to see beneath the masks and costumes, that didn’t mean they were supposed to do so without good reason. I appreciated the thought, I guessed, even though it wasn’t like I could’ve stopped someone from taking a peek while I’d been unconscious and helpless.  
  
Stupid telltale heart monitor.  
  
“Open your eyes,” she ordered.  
  
My eyes snapped open before I’d even consciously finished processing the words, and I stifled a gasp as what felt like a thousand needles stabbed right through them and lodged themselves deep in my brain.  
  
“What can you see?”  
  
“Light,” I said, clenching my jaw against a pathetic whimper. “Bright light.”  
  
Really fucking bright light. Which was probably better than nothing at all, I guessed, but not by much. I still couldn’t make much of anything out through the glare.  
  
“Any discomfort?” she asked.  
  
“Yes,” I ground out.  
  
“Close your eyes.” Obeying that order was a relief and a fucking half. I heard her move away, far enough that she had to open the curtain that presumably enclosed my bed. A few moments later, she returned, closing the curtain behind her once more. “Now, open your eyes again,” she told me. I did so, cringing in anticipation, but this time there were only a hundred stabbing needles, rather than a thousand; the pitiless glare reduced to a less overwhelming intensity. “Better?” she asked.  
  
“Yes, thank you,” I said gratefully. I blinked a few times, trying to bring my surroundings into focus. To my dismay, I had only limited success.  
  
“Just a few more tests, now,” Dr Hart murmured.  
  
I would’ve called it more than a few, and I would definitely have appreciated a little warning before she shone a fucking penlight in my face, but eventually it was over. To my relief, my eyesight had recovered noticeably over the course of the examination. It still wasn’t back to normal, which worried the fuck out of me, but it was good enough for me to ascertain that Dr Hart was, indeed, wearing another fuzzy animal top. Pandas, this time, rather than kittens. I wondered idly how many different such garments she had, and if she’d ever gotten in trouble for wearing them here.  
  
I resisted the urge to fidget as she made notes on what I assumed was my chart, forcing myself to wait with at least the semblance of patience until she was done. I would probably been more successful if it wasn’t for that fucking irritating machine telling all and sundry just how agitated I was feeling.  
  
In any case, the doctor finally set her pen down and pushed her glasses up.  
  
“Well, the good news is that you probably haven’t done yourself any permanent harm,” she said briskly. “Your MRI, ultrasound and echocardiogram show no unexpected abnormalities, your swallowing reflex is normal, and your neurological responses are within the expected range. Based on the evidence, your symptoms point to a case of acute parahuman cerebral overexertion syndrome, rather than, say, some kind of unrelated ischaemic or haemorrhagic event.”  
  
“Huh?” I said, eloquently, unable to follow the rapid-fire words.  
  
The scans she’d mentioned must have been performed while I was unconscious. Which… was probably just as well. If I was disoriented enough to lash out at someone trying to perform first aid on me, I dreaded to think what I would’ve done if I’d woken up to find myself being stuffed into an MRI machine.  
  
“Translation — just a thinker headache, rather than a stroke or something along those lines.”  
  
“That’s a relief,” I said cautiously, wondering what the bad news was. Fortunately, she didn’t keep me in suspense for long.  
  
“The bad news,” she said, her voice taking on a stern note, “is that your case is quite profound. This means that the aftereffects are likely to be proportionally severe, and to persist for an extended period of time.”  
  
She paused for a moment, as if giving her words time to sink in.  
  
“What does that mean, specifically, Dr Hart?” I asked cautiously. And then, less cautiously, “Am I going to be able to use my power?”  
  
“Not without severe discomfort, I suspect,” she replied promptly, “at least for the next few days. I would strongly advise you to refrain from using your parahuman abilities at all during that time, if you can manage it. Overdoing it will only slow your recovery, and you may end up causing yourself further harm.”  
  
I might have wilted at the disapproval in her voice, but I was far too busy reeling at her words.  
  
Days?  
  
Days, plural? Days of feeling like I was surrounded by nothing more substantial than smoke and shadow? Days of not being able to control my metal like I could control my own fingers?  
  
Days of being… of being crippled?  
  
“I… see,” I said, unable to stop my voice from betraying some of my dismay. “But I, uh, I can’t shut off the sensory aspect of my power completely.”  
  
Although my baseline resolution was fuzzy at best right now; my awareness of bonds and structures barely even there at all unless I pushed. And, as I’d already established, forcing the issue was… less than pleasant.  
  
“Avoiding active use should be sufficient,” she said. “As for the other effects… As you’re no doubt aware, the visual impairment, photosensitivity, tactile hyperaesthesia — hypersensitivity to touch — and headache seem to be the most severe, although you may also experience occasional bouts of nausea and dizziness.”  
  
Well, that was fucking fantastic. I guessed ‘hypersensitivity to touch’ was one way of saying ‘every inch of your skin is as sensitive as a fresh welt.’ On the plus side, though, at least there weren’t any actual welts this time, so I didn’t need to worry about infections, or about bleeding all over my clothes.  
  
I was sick and fucking tired of having to wash blood out of my clothes.  
  
“I see,” I said, again, because Dr Hart seemed to be waiting for some kind of acknowledgement.  
  
“Your condition should improve noticeably over the next few days, but I’ll schedule you for regular check-ups so we can keep an eye on things. However, if your symptoms worsen, if you develop new ones, or if anything about your condition concerns you, come back in right away. Okay?”  
  
“I’ll do that,” I said, trying in vain to tune out my father’s voice in the back of my mind muttering dire warnings about ‘whining,’ and ‘making a fuss over nothing.’  
  
 _This isn’t just a bruise or two,_ I reminded myself. _I went blind and then collapsed unconscious. Even Dad would accept that was a cause for concern._  
  
“You may take Tylenol or something similar for the pain if you have to, but make sure you don’t exceed the recommended dose. I or one of the other doctors can prescribe something stronger if absolutely necessary, but I’d prefer to avoid that if we can.”  
  
I tried not to be offended at the suggestion that I couldn’t handle a little… discomfort.  
  
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I said firmly.  
  
“Let’s hope not,” she murmured. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she glanced down at her notes and then back at me. “Right,” she said. “Over the next few days, as well as refraining from active power use, you should also avoid strenuous physical activity.”  
  
“Can I still exercise?” I asked, trying to fight down the anxiety that rose up in my chest at the thought of not being able to keep up with my training.  
  
“Light exercise only,” Dr Hart cautioned. “Take it slowly, rest if you need to and, above all, make sure you don’t overdo it. The more you strain yourself, the longer it’ll take you to recover fully. So don’t strain yourself.”  
  
“I… understand,” I said, and I was pretty sure I was doing a piss-poor job of hiding my unease.  
  
Just the idea of… of slacking off felt… wrong. But… even Dad had actually let me off training for a few days after Lance gave me a concussion. I mean, he’d made me work even harder afterwards to make up for the ‘wasted time,’ but still. That meant he’d probably understand if I really needed to… take it easy for a couple of days.   
  
Not that he was here to object.  
  
In any case, she was a doctor, and what she was saying did make sense, I guessed.  
  
“I hope so,” she said dryly, as if reading my thoughts.  
  
“I do,” I said, not entirely sure which of us I was trying to convince.  
  
I found myself thinking of what Nick had told me, after my power evaluation; about how, if I pushed myself too hard when I was damaged, I could ‘heal wrong, or not at all.’ That, in turn, made me think about Amy — or, Panacea, I guessed, since she’d been using her power at the time — and the things she’d said to me in that clinical, almost bored tone. I remembered her matter of fact description of the damage I’d been carrying as if it had been burned into my brain. I remembered, too, what she’d said about me never quite healing properly in the past, about the damage mounting up over time.  
  
The memories sat there like a stone in my mind, twisting my thoughts around them the way a massive object bent space, making me feel weird and uncomfortable and… and…  
  
Fuck.  
  
I didn’t want to let my routine slide, but I didn’t want to be stuck like this for any longer than necessary. And I definitely didn’t want to cause myself any permanent damage. Okay. So. Light exercise it was. Taking things slowly. Not pushing myself. I could do that, right? Just… take things slow and easy?  
  
I guessed I’d have to.  
  
Even if I wasn’t quite sure how.  
  
Dr Hart gave me some more advice, mostly minor things like wearing dark glasses and not straining my eyes by staring at a computer screen for too long. When she finally ran out of admonishments, she pushed her glasses up her nose again — they did seem to keep slipping down — and regarded me solemnly.  
  
“You should be aware,” she said. “There’s a chance that your symptoms could persist for longer than a few days.”  
  
My stomach dropped through the floor.  
  
I couldn’t help the distant, resentful observation that her tone of voice was far too fucking casual for a revelation of that magnitude.  
  
“Is that likely?” I asked, willing her to say no.  
  
“I don’t believe so,” she said, and I just had time for a brief, dizzying flare of relief before she swiftly doused it by continuing, “but I’m afraid I can’t say for certain. Not only is every parahuman unique to some degree, there simply isn’t a lot of information available on cases of acute PCOS as severe as yours.” Her voice took on a wildly inappropriate note of dry humour as she added, “It would hardly be ethical to ask someone to risk themselves in that manner for a research project, and I’d hope that most people are sensible enough not to push themselves past the point at which they start going blind.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, numbly.  
  
“You might even end up as a case study in a journal at some point,” she mused thoughtfully, her words seeming to come from a great distance. “I know Dr Mackenzie up at Northeast has an interest in PCOS, so she’ll probably get in contact for some follow up tests.”  
  
 _How would she even know?_ I wondered.  
  
“How would she even know?” I was startled to hear myself ask. “Um, never mind, sorry,” I hurriedly added. “I didn’t mean to say that.”  
  
“I’m afraid you might find that happens a bit over the next couple of days or so,” Dr Hart said, not without sympathy. “Your PCOS seems to be presenting with migraine symptoms, and there is a suggestion that those can include some degree of dissociation, which in turn may be connected with, let’s call it an increased tendency to speak one’s thoughts aloud.”  
  
Well, that wasn’t good.  
  
“I see,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as miserable as I felt.  
  
 _I swear, this just keeps getting better and better._  
  
“To answer your question, though,” Dr Hart said, “relevant Protectorate and Ward medical information is routinely made available to PRT researchers with the right clearances, assuming that the parahuman in question has given their consent. Or that their parents, for Wards.” She looked at me for a moment, and I wasn’t sure, but I thought she might have been frowning. “Wasn’t this explained to you when you signed up?”  
  
I thought about it. There had been a lot of information to take in that day, and a fuck of a lot of forms to sign, but I thought, maybe…  
  
“It was,” I said, hating how uncertain I sounded. “But I guess I didn’t really put two and two together.”  
  
There was another long pause while she studied me.  
  
“If it’s something you’re not comfortable with, you don’t have to agree to it,” she said.  
  
“No, that’s fine,” I said, hurriedly, tensing as that damnable heart rate monitor sped up audibly. I tried to make myself calm down and stop being so stupid.  
  
“If you have concerns about privacy,” she said, and it sounded like she was picking her words carefully, “or about any part of your contract, you can always talk to Beth Grant. She’d be far better able to advise you than I would.” She paused again, but only briefly, hesitating perhaps, before she continued. “Anyway, given your… situation… I would imagine that details like that are still being settled. So, nothing’s set in stone.”  
  
Right. My ‘situation.’ The one that Dr Hart knew about because she was the one who’d examined me at Ms Grant’s request. She was the one who’d written up the report on my injuries that the PRT and CPS had used as evidence that Dad wasn’t a fit parent. She was the one who, from Director Piggot’s response to reading that report, or whichever version of it was part of my PRT file, had apparently exaggerated her findings and… and…  
  
My rising anger faltered and sputtered, fading into confused unease. Because… based on what Panacea had told me, she probably **hadn’t** exaggerated. After all, Dad had kind of fucked me up a little bit, hadn’t he? Him and Lance and everyone else I’d fought with or sparred with over the years. So, maybe I owed Dr Hart an apology. In my head, at least. And it probably wasn’t reasonable to be angry with her just because she knew about my ‘situation,’ and certainly not just because she clearly believed my cover story.  
  
I really didn’t have the energy for this.  
  
“Thanks for the advice, Dr Hart,” I said, quietly.  
  
I was a little surprised to realise that I actually meant that. After all, talking to Ms Grant wasn’t exactly the worst idea in the world. Not that I was planning on making a fuss, or causing trouble, or anything like that. But, now that the subject had come up, I wouldn’t have minded having a clearer idea of what, specifically, I’d signed up for. All the little details that maybe I hadn’t paid as close attention to as I should have done, or which, even on a reread, had proved less than clear. Not to mention precisely which parts of my contract were still up in the air until the custody issues had been sorted out. I did have a hazy memory of Ms Grant raising some objections during my meeting with the HR representative, but the details of what she’d said escaped my recollection right now.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dr Hart replied, and I thought she might have smiled at me. “Now, I imagine you’re probably eager to get out of here, so do you have any questions before I discharge you?”  
  
I thought for a moment.  
  
“Will I be able to go to school tomorrow?”  
  
I hadn’t realised until I asked the question just how anxious I was to hear the answer. And, thanks to that **fucking** machine, Dr Hart undoubtedly realised it too. God, I really wanted to rip that heart monitor to shreds right now, and not just because it would feel fucking fantastic.  
  
I wouldn’t, though, because I was better than that.  
  
And I was supposed to refrain from using my power.  
  
And I didn’t want to get in trouble for destroying PRT property.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Dr Hart said. “It might be better for you in the long run to take a day or two off.” The infernal machine beeped faster. “ **But** , if you take care of yourself properly today, then… maybe.” She pushed her glasses up and then wagged her finger at me in a warning gesture. “Only if you really feel up to it though, and only if Dr Jefferson gives the go-ahead after your check-up tomorrow morning. Clear?”  
  
Not quite the unequivocal yes I’d hoped for, but it was better than nothing.  
  
“Clear,” I agreed.  
  
“Right then,” she said briskly. “I’ll say goodbye for now. One of the nurses will be over shortly to unhook you from the drip and the heart monitor.” She considered me for a moment, and I thought she smiled. “Look after yourself, Talos. Don’t let me see you back here unless it’s for a scheduled check-up.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Excuse me, Talos?” The voice pulled me up short as I was leaving the infirmary. I turned to see a guy in scrubs who was peering up at me from behind a cluttered desk. I wondered where Dr Hart and Janice, the nurse who’d unhooked me from the IV and heart monitor, had disappeared off to.  
  
“Yes?” I said, politely. He looked vaguely familiar; another nurse, maybe? I didn’t think I’d ever spoken to him, or even been introduced. He was wearing a name badge, but no matter how I squinted at it, I couldn’t quite make out what it said.  
  
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he said.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, awkwardly, only just managing not to hop from foot to foot. Now that I was moving around, finding that bathroom was beginning to be more of a pressing concern. The last thing I wanted to do was stand around making inane small talk. “I was just… on my way out?”  
  
I hadn’t intended to make that a question.  
  
“Oh, um, I don’t want to keep you,” he said, sounding just as awkward as I felt. “But I have a message for you?”  
  
Apparently uncertainty was catching.  
  
“Yes?” I said, trying not to sound as impatient as I felt.  
  
“Hamish MacArdle left a message asking us to let him know when you were either discharged, or well enough for visitors. I called him a few minutes ago, and he asked if you could pop in and see him.”  
  
I searched my memory, but came up a complete blank.  
  
“Hamish MacArdle?” I queried.  
  
“The Aleph squad leader.”  
  
I felt like I’d just been doused in ice water.  
  
“Oh, I see,” I said, trying in vain to relax the knot of tension that seemed to have formed between my shoulder blades. “He was introduced to me as OB.”  
  
“Right, yeah.” He laughed. “They do like their nicknames, don’t they? I wonder what it stands for.”  
  
He sounded a little more relaxed all of a sudden; a little less awkward. I guessed humour could do that, even though I didn’t see what was so funny about having callsigns and code names. Even if some of them were kind of ridiculous. Most notably those of Gimel squad, but that was undoubtedly a testament to Seraph’s rather odd sense of humour.  
  
“I’m not sure,” I said. I hesitated a moment, and then ventured, “I didn’t really want to ask.”  
  
“Yeah, I can understand that.” he leaned in a little, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Just between you and me, the man’s kind of intimidating.”  
  
“You’re not wrong there,” I agreed, before I could think better of it. I took a breath, trying to impose some kind of order on my thoughts. And also trying very hard not to think of waterfalls, dripping taps, or anything else of that ilk. “Did he say when he wanted to see me? And where?”  
  
“Give me a moment. I’ve got the room number here somewhere…” He rootled through the miscellaneous papers and detritus on his desk, eventually retrieving a lime green, slightly crumpled post-it note. “Okay…” He read off the room designation, helpfully adding, “It’s one of the unassigned office-slash-meeting rooms. You know, the ones near the admin-type departments?”  
  
“I know where those are, thank you,” I said. Reid had used one of the rooms in that area for our meetings, which I guessed meant he didn’t have his own office. “And did he give a specific time?”  
  
“At your ‘earliest convenience,’ was all he said.” He made air quotes around ‘earliest convenience.’  
  
I grimaced before I could stop myself.  
  
“On the double, then,” I muttered, trying not to despair as I watched my coveted decompression time recede into the distance.  
  
“Only if you feel up to it,” he said, his tone firmer than I would’ve expected. I wondered if that was something all medical professionals were taught. More hesitantly, he added, “I’m sure MacArdle will understand if you need to rest.”  
  
I doubted that. I doubted that very much.  
  
“I’m fine,” I said, aiming for a bright tone. “But thanks for your concern. And thanks for passing on the message,” I added, before he could gainsay me. I smiled and started to turn away, but something made me hesitate, and attempt a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”  
  
“Oh, I’m Ryan,” he said, smiling back and gesturing at his illegible name badge. “I’m one of the nurses here. I’m new. Well, newish.” I guessed that explained his earlier nervousness, or whatever it had been. “And you’re welcome. Uh, good luck with MacArdle. OB.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to hide my apprehension. “I really fucking hope I don’t need it.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I tried unsuccessfully to squash the mounting sense of dread I felt as I approached the office OB had commandeered. I was a little more successful at stopping myself second-guessing my decision to detour via a bathroom, but then that situation had been getting pretty fucking urgent, and I didn’t know how long OB was going to keep me. I just hoped he didn’t ask me what the hold up had been. I wouldn’t have wanted him to think I was making excuses.  
  
Squaring my shoulders, I made another attempt to push aside my misgivings and, before I could dither any longer, rapped firmly at the door.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
The terse response killed the faint hope I’d been harbouring that maybe he’d gone already; killed it stone dead. And yes, I knew that would only have delayed the inevitable, maybe even made it worse, but at least I would’ve had the chance to recover from the migraine before… whatever this was.  
  
I entered the small office and closed the door quietly behind me, coming to attention in front of the desk.  
  
“You wanted to see me, Sir?” I asked.  
  
Without his helmet, OB proved to be a fit-looking man in his forties or fifties with short, steel-grey hair, a face that could charitably be referred to as ‘lived-in,’ a thin moustache and piercing blue eyes. Those eyes looked me up and down now, seeming to take in every little detail. I wondered uneasily what he saw.  
  
“I did, yes,” he said, eventually. “Although I’m surprised to see you up and about so soon. I was expecting to have to visit you in the infirmary.”  
  
So soon? It was almost afternoon. I’d almost had a heart attack when I’d checked the time on my way here. Sure, Dr Hart’s examination had taken a little while, but I must have really overslept. Dammit.  
  
“They just discharged me, Sir,” I said, trying not to fret about having wasted so much of the day.  
  
“So I gathered,” he said. His lips curved in a thin smile. “Almost surprised you didn’t stage a daring breakout.”  
  
“Of course not, Sir,” I said stiffly, not sure whether or not I should be offended.  
  
He harrumphed quietly to himself, his expression unreadable, and then, without warning, he suddenly snapped, “What the fuck were you thinking, Talos?”  
  
What had I done? Was… Had I been responsible for that explosion after all?  
  
“I… don’t understand, Sir,” I said, forcing down the nausea that suddenly twisted my stomach and clawed at my throat.  
  
“I’ll enlighten you, then,” he practically growled, anger glinting in his eyes. “Not only did you almost kill yourself out there, you didn’t even tell anyone there was a problem until the last possible moment before you keeled over. So, I’ll ask you again, what the flying fuck was going through your head?”  
  
“The mission wasn’t done, Sir,” I said, the words bursting out of me before I’d even had time to really process the question. “People were going to die if I didn’t do my fucking job. I… I couldn’t just stop!”  
  
His eyes narrowed, and no wonder. I’d practically yelled at the man. Of course he was even more pissed off. My hands wanted to shake, but I kept them under control; made my treacherous body obey me.  
  
Stupid fucking migraine.  
  
“Doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell anyone,” he bit out.  
  
I guessed that counted as a question.  
  
“I didn’t realise how serious it would get, Sir,” I said quietly. “And I didn’t want to make a fuss over nothing.”  
  
He stared at me.  
  
“You didn’t want to make a fuss?” he echoed.  
  
“No, Sir,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as miserable as I felt.  
  
He let the silence stretch for a long moment, studying me. “Fucking half trained capes,” he spat. “Wasn’t your call to make. As field commander, I need to know about anything that might affect the operation. And if one of my parahuman assets is at risk of giving herself a fucking aneurysm, that is definitely something I need to know.”  
  
“It wasn’t an aneurysm, Sir,” I protested, unable to help myself. “Just a severe migraine.”  
  
“Just, she says,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Kid, you went blind, you were slurring your words and your face went numb. Your nose was bleeding so badly you looked like you’d been rolling around in an abattoir. And then, to top it all off, you collapsed like a sack of severed limbs. Scared the shit out of me, you did. Worse, I was completely fucking blindsided. If you’d told someone you were having problems, we could’ve monitored you better; made sure we pulled you out before it got that bad.”  
  
“The mission wasn’t done, Sir,” I said, again, trying really fucking hard not to bristle at being called ‘kid.’ “If you’d pulled me out earlier, more people would have died.”  
  
“What if you’d collapsed while you were trying to hold the building up?” he countered. “Couldn’t have helped anyone then. Plus, you might have ended up as a casualty yourself, along with anyone who tried to drag you to safety.”  
  
“I know my limits, Sir,” I said quietly. “I was reasonably certain I could hold out long enough to get the job done.” But, even as I aimed to speak confidently, I felt… doubt. I hadn’t been expecting to collapse, after all. And if I’d misjudged that, then…  
  
OB snorted, a look of utter disgust creasing his face, deepening the wrinkles that hooded his eyes.  
  
“How the fuck do you know your limits?” he asked dismissively. “You’ve had your powers, what? A couple of weeks? Frankly, you should never have been out in the field in the first place. So you don’t get to decide whether or not you can handle it. You pass it up the chain and leave the decision-making to those of us who are actually fucking qualified.”  
  
“I- I-” I stuttered, choking on my words, almost shaking with the queasy mass of fear and fury roiling inside me. I clamped down on it hard, forcing my stupid fucking emotions back under control. “Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve had to work through a fucking migraine, Sir,” I said flatly. “And, with or without powers, I know a fuck of a lot about enduring pain.”  
  
I made myself stop there before I could say something else he’d make me regret.  
  
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression hard.  
  
“That’s as maybe,” he said, eventually, “but it still wasn’t your call. You say something, and it turns out to be a false alarm, what’s the worst that could happen? We waste a minute or two in conversation, and we keep a closer eye on you. Maybe I make an extraction plan we end up not needing. But if you don’t say anything? Worst case scenario, you get yourself and other people killed. Guess which worst case I’d prefer.”  
  
It felt like my veins filled with ice, like I froze by inches with every word out of his mouth.  
  
“Wouldn’t you be pissed at me if I wasted your time over nothing, Sir?” I found myself asking.  
  
I couldn’t believe I’d actually said that. And, from the look OB was giving me, neither could he.  
  
“Only if I was a damn fool,” he snapped. “Like I said, I need to know anything and everything that might affect the operation. Far as I’m concerned, a false alarm’s better than being fucking blindsided. Do you understand?”  
  
I stared at him for a moment, perplexed. I guessed that… Well, when he put it like that, well, I guessed it made sense, but… But Dad had always said…  
  
‘What did I tell you about whining, girl? Suck it up and finish the goddamn mission or I’ll give you something to fucking whine about.’  
  
If I’d wasted his time with a false alarm, then by God he would’ve made me regret it afterwards. But this… This had been serious. It had. And I hadn’t realised that until it was too late. But if I could be wrong about that, then what if I’d been wrong about being able to endure until the mission was over? What if I had collapsed earlier? Or, worse, if my power had flared out of control?  
  
Well, shit.  
  
I’d… fucked up, hadn’t I?  
  
“Talos!” OB barked, making me twitch a little before I could stop it. “You going to pass out again?”  
  
“No, S- Sir,” I said, trying to ignore the way my head was pounding like a fucking jackhammer.  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, getting to his feet. My misfiring power tried to do… something… and I frantically locked it down, just as I made my body stay as still as a statue. In the meanwhile, OB stomped across the small room, retrieved a chair from the top of a small stack of them pushed against the wall, and plonked it down next to me. “Sit down before you fall down,” he ordered. “Again.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said, carefully folding myself into what I very soon realised was yet another one of those fucking uncomfortable chairs. Made sense that they would end up shoved into the unassigned offices. “But I wasn’t going to fall down,” I couldn’t stop myself from adding.  
  
OB snorted as he settled back into his own chair. “Didn’t we just have this conversation?” It sounded like a rhetorical question and, in any case I didn’t have the first clue what to say, so I said nothing. He sighed loudly. “Lord save me from stubborn teenagers who think they’re indestructible,” he muttered.  
  
“I don’t think that, Sir,” I protested. And I didn’t, not even close. If there was one thing Dad had taught me over the course of my life, it was that I was eminently fucking breakable.  
  
“Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted. He eyed me askance. “You know, you warped your armour,” he told me. “Fucked up the quick-release catches so we couldn’t get you out of it. By that point, you were barely responsive. Only thing that seemed to get through to you was when I barked orders like it was going out of style.” He shook his head, grimacing. “Not one of my fondest memories.”  
  
I blinked at him stupidly for a moment, confused by his sudden… pensiveness. Not to mention the fact that he’d allowed me to sit down.  
  
“Uh, sorry, Sir,” I offered tentatively. Fuck, I was so far out of my depth right now it felt like I was drowning.  
  
“I don’t want your fucking apologies,” he snapped, glaring at me. “Just don’t pull that shit again. You understand me?”  
  
“Yes, Sir,” I said.  
  
“Halle-fucking-lujah,” he sighed. I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but he almost seemed to… not soften, exactly, but maybe unbend a little from the coiled-spring pose that made me think he was going to spring out of his seat at any moment. “Speaking of apologies, though,” he said, “you do owe one to Spider and Roman.”  
  
My heart leaped into my throat.  
  
“Why-“ My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Why is that, Sir?”  
  
“You came to briefly in the van,” he said shortly. “You were obviously disoriented; didn’t really know where you were or what was happening. Spider was making sure you were still breathing. You slurred something that sounded like ‘get your fucking hands off me,’ and then headbutted him in the face.” He shook his head while I stared in horror. “Can’t imagine that helped your headache any. Roman tried to calm you down, but you…” He frowned. “Not sure what you did, exactly, but his body armour just crumpled around him. Effective immobilising tactic, actually. Probably something you should practice. You passed out again after that.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, numbly. That must have been the incident Dr Hart had referred to. “I don’t remember that, Sir.”  
  
“Given that your brains were practically leaking out through your ears at the time, it’s no wonder. Frankly, I’m almost surprised you can remember anything at all that happened last night.”  
  
“Are Spider and Roman okay, Sir?” I asked.  
  
“More or less,” he said. “Roman was a bit short of breath by the time we managed to cut him out of his armour, but he recovered soon enough. Just a bit of bruising on his ribs. And you just gave Spider a black eye. Didn’t even break his nose.”  
  
“I see, Sir,” I said. Resisting the urge to curl in on myself, I sat up as straight as I could, not allowing myself to look away from OB. “Am I going to be disciplined?”  
  
He snorted. “Disciplining you isn’t my job,” he said. “And you can thank your lucky stars for that, believe me. But I’d imagine the fact that you were fucking delirious at the time probably counts as extenuating circumstances.”  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” I said quietly.  
  
OB shook his head, muttered something I couldn’t quite make out, and then gestured towards the door.  
  
“Get out of here, kid. I’ve said my piece. I just hope it sticks.”  
  
“You’re not going to debrief me, Sir?” I asked, startled.  
  
“Not my job, thank fuck,” he said, giving me a jaundiced look. “Anyway, I’ve got enough on my plate with the paperwork from yesterday.” I bit back my instinctive apology, returning his gaze with as neutral an expression as I could manage. After a moment, he sighed heavily, wearily, and turned his attention to the computer on the desk in front of him. “Get the fuck out of here, Talos.”  
  
I got the fuck out of there.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The skin between my shoulder blades crawled like a whole colony of ants.  
  
 _One step after another,_ I told myself. _Just one step after another._  
  
Even though every single step I took meant I was one step further from safety. One step further from the place I was starting to think of as, if not home, then at least somewhere that was mine. One step further from the PRT building.  
  
The sky stretched endlessly overhead; a vast grey space that made me feel vertiginous snd almost queasy when I looked into it. I didn’t know if it was the migraine, or just some weird perceptual shift from having spent so much time indoors of late, but it almost felt as if it roiled below me, rather than above. As if I hung suspended over some great abyss, and any moment might see me tumbling down into the void.  
  
I tried to avoid looking up.  
  
The rain-damp sidewalk was slick and treacherous beneath my unsteady feet. I limited myself to a sedate pace, rather than my usual brisk stride, but that didn’t stop the world from wavering around me every now and then. Perhaps I should have eaten something more substantial than the protein bar I’d retrieved from the stash in my room, but that would’ve meant going to the kitchen, which in turn would have risked someone seeing me. And if they saw me, they’d want to talk, and I couldn’t…  
  
I sighed softly.  
  
Talking, interacting with people, fielding questions about how I was… That was the absolute last thing I wanted to do right now. I’d known that from the moment I’d stepped into the Wards HQ and realised that everyone and their fucking dog seemed to be hanging around the place. Figuratively speaking. I’d made it to my room without attracting my teammates’ attention, but once I was there it had felt like… like the walls were closing in. Like there wasn’t enough air in there and I just couldn’t breathe. Like I was… trapped.  
  
I’d wandered my room, pacing aimlessly back and forth, touching things. My things. The desk, the bookcase, the miscellaneous bits and pieces of metal and glass and plastic and whatever else I’d picked up here and there. But without my power, they all felt… ephemeral. Unreal. Fake. Rather than the reassurance the contact normally provided, it just left me feeling even more restless; even more trapped.  
  
I’d had to get out of there. Not just my room, or even the Wards HQ, but the whole damn building. It felt like a cage and I needed… space.  
  
It was a risk. I knew it was a risk. Dad was out there — out here — looking for me. Despite the stupid, childish hope I’d felt that maybe… maybe he’d actually let me go, I knew, deep in my bones, that he wouldn’t. I was his daughter. More than that, I was all he had left of my mother. And, even more than that, I was the instrument of his vengeance; the weapon he wanted to use to rip Kaiser apart.  
  
He wouldn’t give that up without a fight.  
  
But I’d only made my debut last night. Even if he’d seen it, even if he had put two and two together and made the connection between Talos and his wayward daughter, he wouldn’t… I didn’t think he’d come for me right away. And not here, so close to the PRT HQ. It was too much of a risk, and Dad didn’t take stupid risks. He was careful.   
  
So it was fine. It would be fine. I would be fine.  
  
Despite the way my instincts screamed danger wherever I looked. Despite the way my paranoia whispered that there were enemies everywhere; eyes watching, hands waiting to grab and hold and hurt. Despite the way part of me wanted to turn tail and run back to the safety of the PRT building.  
  
But that would mean backing down, giving into the fear, letting it control me.  
  
I didn’t back down. I wouldn’t be ruled by my fucking emotions, least of all fear. And control over my own life, my own choices, was such a rare and precious commodity that I refused to give up even the merest sliver of it.  
  
So I made myself keep moving; one step at a time. And every step further away from sanctuary brought me one step closer to my destination.  
  
The park.  
  
The ants on my skin writhed even more frantically. I started at every shadow, every sound; the wind in the trees becoming my father’s voice, whispering threats and imprecations. My breath caught in my throat and my heart pounded like a drum, a frantic rhythm mirrored by the pounding in my head as the migraine spitefully dug in its claws. And yet, paradoxical as it seemed, a part of me also relaxed infinitesimally, soothed by the presence of trees and grass and growing things.  
  
Okay, being winter, there wasn’t that much in the way of actual greenery, but still. It was the principle of the thing.  
  
I’d always loved parks. This was… It felt like a sanctuary of a different kind. Like a promise of freedom, almost, even though I’d long known that promise to be a lie. While I was here, or places like here, I could always imagine the rest of the world far away, and all my troubles with it. As if I was the only person in the world.  
  
That was one benefit of the season, I supposed. One positive aspect to the wind that beat at me, to the constant patter of drizzle on my bare, unmasked face, to the cold that chilled me to the bone.  
  
At least I was practically guaranteed to have this place to myself.  
  
I should have known better than to tempt fate. Because the moment that thought crossed my mind, I heard the soft sound of footsteps behind me, rapidly drawing near, and I glanced back in time to see a figure round the corner. There was just enough time for me to wonder what kind of idiot — aside from me — would visit a park in the rain, in the middle of fucking winter, and he moved forward, into the light, giving me a good look at his face.  
  
My heart seized in my chest.  
  
Our eyes met.  
  
Lance stopped dead, his lips curving in a cruel smile, triumph glittering like diamonds in his eyes.  
  
“You’re getting sloppy, Triss,” he sneered. He took a slow step towards me. “Or should I say… Talos?”


	43. Aphenphosmphobia 3.16

“I’m not going back,” I blurted out, the words bursting out of me without a conscious decision to speak. “You can’t make me go back.”  
  
I hoped desperately, fervently, that this wasn’t real, that it was just another fucking nightmare, but I knew in my heart that it wasn’t. Lance was really here, this was really happening and I…  
  
I was well and truly fucked.  
  
Christ. What the fuck had I been thinking, coming out here? Especially in my current condition. It was absolutely moronic!  
  
“Do you really think you can stop me, bitch?” Lance growled.  
  
Ignoring the despair turning my limbs to ice, freezing me from the inside out, I made my recalcitrant body move into a combat stance. Bracing myself mentally, I reached for the metal I hadn’t been able to bring myself to leave behind, even knowing it was all but useless to me right now. An icepick drove through my head, my skin lighting on fire as the world briefly flared with a harsh electric brilliance. **Fuck** , it hurt. But I couldn’t show it, couldn’t let it stop me, certainly couldn’t worry about how much I might be damaging myself right now.  
  
I only had one shot at this, and failure was not a fucking option.  
  
 _Move,_ I thought. And, to my profound relief, my metal obeyed.  
  
I only moved it a little, but that was all I needed right now. It peeked out from under my sleeves, just far enough for Lance to see that it was there, and that I was in control.  
  
Buoyed by the fact that it worked, thank fuck, even if it hurt, I managed to dredge up some kind of a fierce, feral smile. I could only hope it looked half as demented as it felt.  
  
“Don’t **you** remember what happened the last time you fucked with me, asshole?” I sneered, my voice ringing with a confidence I wasn’t even close to actually feeling right now.  
  
Uncertainty flickered in Lance’s eyes; wariness, maybe. One of his hands twitched briefly in an abortive movement that stopped as soon as it started. I wondered if he’d been going to lift his hand to his throat. (I tried to tell myself that the nameless feeling pressing on my chest wasn’t shame, or guilt, or anything of that ilk. Just as I tried to tell myself that I didn’t feel an answering urge to press a hand to my own throat.)  
  
“Fucking psycho bitch,” he spat.  
  
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I retorted. Not my best comeback ever, but it would have to do. I made a show of looking Lance up and down dismissively, hopefully camouflaging the fact that I was having trouble focusing. I was painfully aware that I was running on fumes right now, but I couldn’t let that stop me. “Now, fuck off back to Dad like a good little boy, because I am not. Going. Back! If he thinks-”  
  
“The old man doesn’t even know I’m here!”  
  
I stared at Lance for a moment, utterly thrown by his words — his lies; they had to be — but then I clawed back my composure and twisted my expression into a sneer.  
  
“Sure, he doesn’t,” I drawled. “You don’t so much as take a shit without his permission, Lance. Do you seriously expect me to believe you’d go on an unapproved mission into enemy territory?” Before I could think better of it, I found myself adding, “There’s a reason he pegged you for a lieutenant, and not a leader. Thinking for yourself has **never** been your strong suit.”  
  
Pain exploded in my midsection, doubling me over; making me choke on my words. I hadn’t even seen Lance move. One moment he was just standing there, glaring at me, and the next he was driving his fist into my gut. My sunglasses slipped down my nose and fell off, tumbling down to the ground, but I was too busy trying not to throw up to really care.  
  
 _I went too far,_ I thought dizzily, the realisation burning almost as much as the bile at the back of my throat.  
  
“You’re going to regret that, bitch,” Lance growled.  
  
I already regretted it, and not just because of the pain. I just couldn’t find the air to tell him, _Too late, asshole_.  
  
I was just made of bad decisions today.  
  
But regret wasn’t the only emotion that burned in me. It wasn’t the reason why my heart was racing, why adrenaline zipped through me, enervating my flagging, failing body.  
  
It sure as shit wasn’t the reason I didn’t crumple to the ground in a pathetic, whimpering heap.  
  
Fuck regret. I was going to make my asshole brother **bleed**.  
  
I made myself suck in a breath.  
  
 _If I can… can breathe, I can st… stand._  
  
I forced myself upright, ignoring the way the world tilted like a fairground ride and the pain in my head pulsed in time with my rage-driven heartbeat. I was half-surprised Lance hadn’t followed up on his attack right away, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to look that gift horse in the mouth. Whatever his reasons, he seemed content merely to glare murderously at me as I took a step back and brought my hands into a guard position, shifting my weight onto the balls of my feet.  
  
 _If I can… stand,_ I told myself, _then I can… fight._  
  
Fuck, this was going to hurt.  
  
“Is that… all you’ve… got?” I huffed out, letting my voice fill with contemptuous vitriol to add, “Fucking **pussy**.”  
  
In lieu of words, Lance let his actions speak for him, his right fist snapping out towards my chest. I barely blocked the blow, smacking his arm aside with my left hand and lunging forward with a right palm heel strike, thumping him solidly in the side of the jaw. The shock of the impact travelled all the way up my arm to jar my strained shoulder, making my follow-up blow to his temple a hair too slow. His left hand flashed up, not just intercepting the strike, but continuing the motion to shove my arm towards me. No matter how I drove my malfunctioning body, I couldn’t move fast enough to disengage, couldn’t brace myself enough to stand my ground, and I ended up being half-spun around. The world spun with me and I staggered, desperately trying to keep my balance even though I wasn’t entirely sure which way was up right now. While I flailed uselessly, a sharp blow to my side made my already strained breath catch in my throat.  
  
“You never did know when to shut your fucking mouth,” Lance growled. He punched me in the side again, and then grabbed me while I reeled, wrenching my arm up painfully behind my back. “Always testing me; always pushing. It’s like you want to piss me off. You-“  
  
I rammed my elbow backwards as hard as I could, and whatever else was going to say was lost in a pained hiss of breath. His grip loosened fractionally, and I twisted free, pivoting to lash out with a kick. Alas, Lance — unlike Chris — knew not to hang around when things went awry and so, rather than slamming into his crotch, my foot just clipped his thigh. I instantly snapped out a punch to cover my retreat and backed up a little, putting some distance between us.  
  
We circled each other warily.  
  
“Like you’ve ever needed an excuse to try to beat the shit out of me,” I sneered, mentally crossing my fingers that he wouldn’t see through what I feared was a painfully transparent stalling tactic. I just… I needed a moment. Several moments, even. I needed to catch my breath and gather what strength I had. “And it’s not like you never pick fights with me.”  
  
And it sure as shit wasn’t like I was the only one of the two of us to use words as weapons.  
  
“But I’m the one who ends up in the basement when you push me too far,” he snapped.  
  
He launched himself at me, and we exchanged a rapid series of blows that left me short of breath and aching down to my bones. Not that Lance came off unscathed, but he didn’t seem anywhere near as scathed as I would’ve liked. I studied him as we tested each other’s defences, noting the way he was favouring his left side.  
  
“What, and I’ve never been disciplined for damaging you too much?” I retorted scornfully, feinting high and then slamming my fist hard into his side, relishing the way his breath hitched in his throat at the impact. Had he already forgotten what happened the last day of Hell Week?  
  
“It’s not the same and you know it,” he said impatiently. “He lets you get away with so much more than I ever can.” I didn’t answer, both because I was frantically trying to not get hit by the vicious flurry of strikes and kicks hurtling my way, and because, well, he wasn’t actually wrong. “After all,” he growled, not letting up the pressure for an instant, “a leader is supposed to discipline her lieutenant. Right, **Triss**?”  
  
(It didn’t hurt to hear him use that name like a knife; to hear him say it with hatred and contempt. It didn’t. That would’ve been stupid. Anyway, it wasn’t like I didn’t already know he hated me. And I… I hated him too.)  
  
“At least I never tried to kill you,” I panted, cursing the way my head pounded and my muscles burned. I shouldn’t have been this tired and out of breath. We hadn’t even been fighting all that long. (Would Dr Hart class this as ‘light exercise?’ Somehow, I doubted it.) “Not like you can say the same.”  
  
Gritting my teeth, I dredged up some more energy from somewhere and managed to buy myself enough distance to lash out with a kick. My shin smacked into his midsection with a satisfying thump, but there was a hairy moment when I wobbled precariously, unable to catch my balance. Fortunately, Lance was too busy wheezing to take advantage of my weakness. Unfortunately, I was too busy trying to say upright to take advantage of his.   
  
“The fuck are you talking about?” he asked, giving me an uncertain look. “Stop being so fucking melodramatic. I’ve never tried to kill you.”  
  
(I tried not to think about how familiar this felt; like a dance whose steps I’d memorised. A dance I’d missed, maybe, stupid though that was.)  
  
“Don’t you remember pushing me down the stairs?” I demanded, watching for my opportunity. “Gave me a concussion; almost broke my fucking neck.” I made myself smile; a sharp and vicious thing, as poisonous as my words. “Didn’t have the balls to finish the job, though, did you?”  
  
His eyes flew wide, and he hesitated; only for the barest fraction of a second, but that was all I needed. It was what I’d been waiting for. I practically threw myself forward, slapping aside his guard with one hand so I could smack him in the face as hard as I could with the other, putting my whole body behind the blow. I knew that wasn’t going to be enough, but I had more where that came from, snapping back in the other direction to stamp down on the inside of his calf with my heel and then, the pièce de résistance, driving my knee up into his groin.  
  
At least, that was the plan. But my stupid body wouldn’t… wouldn’t fucking work right. It wobbled instead of standing firm; my limbs leaden and ungainly so that my blows were off their marks. For one heartstopping moment, the world started to recede, but I desperately clawed it back again.  
  
Shit.  
  
 **Shit**.  
  
 _Have to move, have to-_  
  
A punch to the face snapped my head back; made fireworks burst across my already-clouded vision. My whole world pulsed with pain, my knees buckling despite my best efforts. Lance grabbed me while I floundered, and for a moment his iron grip might have been the only thing keeping me upright. His strong fingers dug painfully into my upper arms as he shook me like like a dog shakes a rat.  
  
“…you believe?” he was saying, the words seeming to come from very far away. “Or were you just saying it to mess with my head?” He paused then, and I tried to speak, but I couldn’t make my mouth work. “Answer me, bitch!” he snapped, shaking me again.  
  
“Keep shaking me like that, and you’re going to end up wearing my lunch,” someone mumbled. Belatedly, I realised it was me.  
  
Not that I’d really had much in the way of lunch. And I’d missed breakfast. Fuck, I hadn’t really had dinner last night, either. But I had more important things to worry about right now.  
  
A stinging pain in my cheek shocked me out of my daze, and I blinked away the starbursts — well, some of them — to squint at Lance’s scowling face.  
  
“Tell me,” he said, the threat clear in his voice.  
  
I opened my mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but what came out instead was, “A little of both, maybe. I don’t know.” God, I sounded absolutely fucking pathetic. A sudden burst of fury gave me the strength to stand up straight and snarl, “Get your fucking hands off me, **asshole**.”  
  
“Make me,” he retorted, and slapped me again. Just because he could, because he knew how much it pissed me off. Because hurting me wasn’t enough for him, so he wanted to humiliate me, too.  
  
I really fucking hated being humiliated.  
  
“Bastard,” I muttered.  
  
Even as I spoke, I dropped into a deep stance, bending my knees and using my own weight to drag Lance slightly off-balance. Bringing my arms up in a loose guard, I turned my head and sank my teeth deeply into his hand.  
  
His startled yelp was like music to my ears.  
  
Releasing his hand, I smacked his arm down, breaking his slackened grip, and then snapped out a backhanded blow to his cheek — _see how you like it, asshole_ — buying myself a moment to put some distance between us. Unfortunately, a moment was all I bought, as Lance went for me again right away. He came at me hard, and I did my level best to give as good as I got, painfully aware that stubborn bloody-mindedness was pretty much the only thing keeping me going right now.  
  
That and desperation.  
  
The only saving grace here was that Lance seemed to be having troubles of his own. He was still favouring his side, and his left leg dragged occasionally, the knee moving stiffly. I, of course, took advantage of any and all weaknesses. (I tried not to wonder how many of them were my fault; how many were the result of Dad venting his temper over my rebellion.)  
  
“Fucking bitch,” he said, as I narrowly avoided his attempt to sweep my legs out from under me.  
  
“You **told** me to make you,” I pointed out. Alas, the ragged edge to my voice sapped some of the obnoxious smugness from my words. “So I made you.”  
  
“You didn’t have to fucking bite me,” he protested, and if I’d had the breath to spare, I would’ve laughed at the incongruously offended note in his voice.  
  
Even though this really wasn’t a laughing matter.  
  
“What?” I panted scornfully. “Were you… expecting me to just… give up without… a fight?” Finally managing to disengage, I backed up a little, trying to catch my breath. It was a delicate balancing act: far enough away that I had an extra moment or two to react; not so far that I couldn’t see him clearly. “Just let you… drag me back to… to Dad? Fuck that noise!”  
  
“Why the fuck would I **want** you to come back?” he burst out. “You running away was the best thing you ever did for me!” He stepped up the pressure, and I forced myself to match him, or at least to try. “You’re not his fucking golden girl any more.” I didn’t reply — couldn’t reply — focusing on driving my recalcitrant body as hard as I could, forcing it to do what I needed. “Now you’ve shown your true colours, and he finally recognises your weakness for what it is.” I aimed a kick at his knee; took a punch to the side in trade for letting it connect, followed up with a jab to his bad side as he stumbled. “For once in my life, I’m not stuck in your goddamn shadow. He actually sees me, and he knows I can do what needs to be done. He knows I’m fucking loyal. Unlike you, you traitorous bitch!”  
  
The world went head over heels, my palms slapping hard against the asphalt as I tried to soften my landing. Instinct made me roll aside, getting me just far enough from where I’d fallen that Lance’s kick just clipped my side, rather than catching me square in the stomach. Gritting my teeth, I gathered myself into a crouch, lashing out with my forearm to smack him in the side of the knee. His breath hissed between his teeth, and I remembered, belatedly, that I was still wearing my metal.  
  
At least it was still good for something.  
  
I took advantage of the opportunity to force myself back to my feet, trying not to sway in the breeze.  
  
“I’m so fucking happy for you, Lance,” I spat. “Is it everything you hoped for, having the old man’s undivided attention?” I was waiting for the flinch; took advantage of it with a hard offence, throwing everything I could his way in the hope that some of it stuck. “Does it make you feel **special**?” A red haze descended over my mind, and pain didn’t matter, exhaustion didn’t matter. Whatever was waiting for me after this was over; that didn’t matter. The only thing I knew was rage; the only thing I cared about was hurting him. “Do you want to know how special I feel when nothing I do is ever fucking good enough for him?” The words forced their way out of me like blades; so sharp I almost expected to taste blood in my mouth. “Or how honoured I am that he put so much goddamn work into trying to force me to trigger?” I jabbed my fingers into Lance’s throat, followed up with a punch to his gut while he choked, and pivoted to smack the side of my metal-wrapped forearm into his kidney. “But I guess you’ve got that to look forward to now. It’ll be a real father-son bonding experience.”  
  
“He’s already tried to help me trigger,” Lance growled. “You know that.”  
  
He whirled suddenly, his elbow clipping my head, making me stumble. The world wobbled for a moment, or maybe I did, and I scrambled to gain some space.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, belatedly, a feeling like razor-blades and barbed wire coiling inside my chest. “A few times. Not nearly as… as relentlessly as he did with me. And I bet he never had half his squad smack you around while telling you in excruciating detail how they were all going to take turns fucking you.”  
  
Lance, the idiot, actually froze. But I must’ve been even more of an idiot, because I couldn’t bring myself to take advantage of his stupidity, and so we just stood there, staring at each other.  
  
“They didn’t…” He stopped, cleared his throat and tried again. “He wouldn’t actually let…” Once more, his words trailed off into silence.  
  
I took pity on him.  
  
“No,” I said, my voice almost as hoarse as his, “they didn’t. They weren’t really going to. But I didn’t know that. And, trust me, they were really fucking convincing.” A mirthless smile stretched my lips; a rictus grin, no doubt. “No pun intended.”  
  
Shit. I didn’t… I couldn’t think about that right now. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it up in the first place. Somewhere along the way, my rage seemed to have dissipated, and without that to buoy me up, I was so very tired. And I hurt. God, did I hurt.  
  
“You never told me,” Lance said, quietly.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“Why would I? It’s not like we’re close.” Not for a long time, now. “And it’s not like you told ever told me why you can’t sleep when we’re out at the cabin.”  
  
He twitched, his expression shuttering, but he didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say I was really surprised. I drew in a breath, holding in a wince as my ribs complained at me. Fuck, I really hoped they weren’t fractured. Again.  
  
Stillness and silence reigned for a few moments more, and I shivered involuntarily as the wind knifed through me, chilling me to the bone. Lance suddenly exploded into motion, his fist hurtling towards me, going right through my hasty block and — because I couldn’t make my fucking useless body move fast enough to get out of the way — hammering against my already-sore ribs.  
  
“Why tell me that now?” he demanded, his breath hitching a little as one of my own blows thumped home. “You trying to make me feel sorry for you?” He tried to grab me again; I twisted away and snapped out a kick. “Do you think I don’t have my own stories to tell? Shit you don’t know about?” He was clearly flagging now, listing slightly to one side, his bad leg slowing him down. The trouble was, I was flagging more. “Do you think I haven’t suffered?”  
  
Despite myself, the raw pain in his voice made me flinch inside.  
  
“I know you have,” I found myself saying. “That wasn’t what-“ The rest of my sentence was lost when a blow to the gut sent the breath whooshing out of me, the contents of my stomach almost following right behind. Swallowing hard, I somehow managed to stay upright, to keep moving. “It’s not a… a fucking… contest.” I knew I should have saved my breath — it wasn’t like I really had any to spare right now — but I just couldn’t stop talking. “I just wanted… to let you know…” I twisted to avoid a sweep to the legs and almost fell anyway. “Being the… Being his fucking golden child…” Fucking stupid turn of phrase, but whatever. “There’s a price.”  
  
The dizziness had returned; had settled inside my skull, along with the headache strobing in time with the frantic pounding of my heart. There were… gaps; spaces between moments that I couldn’t account for, giving the scene a stutter-stop feel like something out of a horror movie. This was… This was bad. It was… I had to pull myself together.  
  
 _Work, damn you,_ I ordered my body. _Fucking **fight**._  
  
If I could… could fight… then I could… I could… win.  
  
Couldn’t I?  
  
But a blow to the head left me reeling, left another…  
  
…gap, and the next thing I knew, I was caught.  
  
Lance was behind me, one hand twisted in my hair, while his other forearm was a bar across my chest, locking me against him. I struggled as hard as I could, but it was no use. I wasn’t going anywhere. All I got for my troubles was more pain, my head yanked back so hard I thought he was going to pull my hair out by the roots.  
  
 _Should’ve just shaved it all off,_ I thought dizzily, dismally. I’d suggested it to Victoria — partly joking, mostly not — but she really hadn’t approved. And I hadn’t had the mental fortitude to insist.  
  
“I’ve paid my dues,” Lance hissed in my ear, and it took me a moment to remember what we were even talking about. “Don’t you dare say I haven’t, bitch. Don’t you fucking tell me I’m not good enough.”  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” The sound of my own voice startled me, the words almost shouted. It startled Lance, too, judging by the way he twitched against me. “Don’t you fucking listen? That wasn’t even close to what I said.” I stamped on his instep with my heel, but I couldn’t get enough leverage to make it count. He pressed his arm against my chest, steadily increasing the force until I struggled to catch my breath.  
  
“Then tell me what the fuck you did mean,” he said, but all I could do was wheeze at him, scrabbling uselessly at his arm. I felt, rather than heard, his sigh, and then the pressure eased fractionally.  
  
I gulped down that sweet, sweet oxygen, resisting the urge to dig my nails into the pressure points in his wrist, or maybe into the bite mark I’d left on his hand. Best to conserve my strength, such as it was, until I had a better opportunity to make use of it.  
  
(I didn’t let myself think that maybe there wouldn’t be such an opportunity; that maybe, as far as my desperate bid for freedom was concerned, this was the end of the line.)  
  
“You said… said he pushes me. Because he… cares.” It felt like a lifetime ago since Lance had thrown those words in my face. A lifetime ago and a world away. “But that’s not… It’s not quite right.” I struggled to get my thoughts in order, to find the right words. They were there somewhere, I knew, but they eluded my grasp, and the more I hesitated, trying to think of them, the more impatient Lance would get. And when he lost his patience altogether, things were going to get ugly. So I abandoned my quest for the right words, and just went with the first ones that came to mind. “Not that he doesn’t care. About me. But… but he… he cares about the mission more.”  
  
Bizarrely, idiotically, I found laughter bubbling up in my throat. If that bitter, biting sound could really be called laughter. It sure as shit didn’t have a whole fucking lot to do with mirth.  
  
“The fuck are you laughing at?” Lance growled.  
  
“It’s… it’s just… It’s pretty fucking hilarious, isn’t it?” I gasped out, wondering if this was what going mad felt like. Somehow managing to choke back the laughter, I took a breath and tried again, willing my voice not to shake. “You think he pushes me harder than you because I’m his favourite. Because he loves me more than he loves you. But I… I always thought it was the other way around.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Lance said, and there was a strange note in his voice that made me wish I could see his face. Maybe that way I would’ve had a hope in hell of figuring out what the flying fuck was going through his head right now.  
  
Plus, y’know, it would’ve meant he didn’t have his fucking hands on me.  
  
“It makes perfect sense,” I spat, humour replaced by anger in barely the blink of an eye. “I’m the one who’s supposed to take down Kaiser. I’m the one who’s supposed to rule the fucking Empire when he’s dead. I’m-”  
  
I found myself struggling to breathe again as Lance seemingly tried to crush the life out of me.  
  
“You really think now is a good time to taunt me?” he rumbled. He kept up the pressure for a beat longer, showing me who had the upper hand here, and then let me breathe again.  
  
“Fucking asshole!” I burst out, struggling not to hyperventilate. “I wasn’t… That wasn’t a taunt, you fuckwit! He didn’t choose me to be the leader because he thinks I’m better than you, or stronger, or whatever the fuck else you’ve got a hair up your ass about. He chose me because I’m my mother’s goddamn daughter. That’s it! That’s all it is; all it ever was. Plain and simple. He… he thinks it’s my duty to avenge her. He thinks ruling the Empire is my birthright. Goddammit, Lance, you know this! Or you would if you didn’t have your head lodged firmly up your ass.“  
  
“Insulting me as well?” Lance interrupted. “You’re either an idiot or a masochist. Maybe both.” Despite the warning — the threat — there was a darkly amused note to his voice.  
  
Not that I gave one flying frilly fuck what he thought right now. My chest was heaving, and my face felt hot and tight, my whole body taut as a drum. I felt… My words tumbled over each other, and I could no more have kept them back than I could have stopped the sun from rising in the morning.  
  
“It all comes back to blood, you stupid prick,” I snarled. “You even said it yourself. Because even though I’m his in every way that counts, even though he’s the one who raised me, it’s her blood that runs in my veins. So of course it’s me. It has to be me. Because avenging a woman I’ve never even met is worth more to him than just letting me live my own goddamn life. Because… because I was his s- soldier, his… his fucking **weapon** , before I was ever his d- daughter. But you…” My breath hitched in my throat, and if I still knew how to cry, I might have thought it was a sob, but it couldn’t possibly have been. Dad flensed that weakness out of me long ago. Anyway, my eyes were still dry. “You bastard,” I whispered, trying in vain to stem the tide of nameless, useless feelings that swelled inside me. “You’re his son first, not his soldier. You always have been, always will be. So you get to have your friends. You get to spend time doing whatever the fuck you want instead of training all the goddamn time. You get to have a life outside the fucking mission. But the mission **is** my life, you son of a bitch!”  
  
“You could have friends if you weren’t such an antisocial cunt,” Lance snapped, twisting his fingers cruelly in my hair. “And if you think I have any more chance of living my own life than you do, you’re fucking delusional. He might be expecting you to rule the Empire, but he’s expecting me to be right there at your side. Watching your back. Following your fucking orders. Just like he did with **her**.” He made an inarticulate sound of rage and frustration deep in his throat, the sound practically a growl. “Do you think I don’t have my own ambitions? The last thing I want is to be your fucking lackey! I might not have your glorious heritage, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a leader.”  
  
“So, fuck off and do it already!” I yelled. “I’m not stopping you!” I started struggling in earnest, kicking out behind me with my heel, digging my nails into his arm, ramming my elbows into his body; anything and everything I could think of.  
  
Lance hissed in pain as I found a sore spot and battered the hell out of it.  
  
“Stop that,” he said sharply. He tightened his grip again, but I’d managed to twist so he couldn’t get the right angle to squeeze the air from my lungs.  
  
“Make me,” I muttered, elbowing him in the side again, and twisting around a little further. My scalp felt like it was on fire, but that didn’t matter. It was only pain; I could handle a little pain.  
  
“Fine!” he snapped. “You want me to make you, I’ll fucking make you.” The next thing I knew, his arm was pressing against my throat. “That’s better,” he said, a moment later, and I belatedly realised that I’d frozen in place.  
  
Briefly.  
  
A heartbeat later I was moving, scrabbling at his arm, driven more by panic than any kind of rational thought. Desperately, instinctively, I seized my metal and forcing it to obey me, to _help me_. Pain blazed a well-worn trail along my nerves, but Lance made a pained, startled sound and, more importantly, that awful, awful pressure vanished from my throat.  
  
Lance said something, but I couldn’t understand the words. My ears were ringing like bells, it felt like my head was going to split in two, like my eyes were on the verge of bursting from their sockets. The air was made of needles and knives.  
  
I just about had time to realise I’d just made a horrible mistake, and then darkness pulled me under.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The return of awareness was sudden and shocking, like being doused with of ice-water or smacked in the face. I was sprawled bonelessly on the cold hard ground and someone was… was grabbing at me; was putting their hands on me without my fucking permission. Confused, panicking, utterly fucking **furious** , I flung my ailing body into motion, my fist smacking into the side of the bastard’s head. He let out a pained huff of breath.  
  
“Stop fighting me, you stupid cow,” he said, sounding annoyed, but also… worried? “I’m trying to help.” Lance’s voice? But…  
  
 _Oh._  
  
Just like that, everything snapped into place.  
  
‘Get the fuck off me,’ I tried to say.  
  
“Why the fuck would you help me, Lance?” was what I actually said, in a plaintive, pathetic voice that made me absolutely fucking despise myself. “You hate me.”  
  
He went still. I squinted up at him, trying to make out his face through the spots clouding my vision. I needn’t have bothered: his expression was opaque. He just looked at me for a breath or two and then sat back on his heels.  
  
“You’re my sister,” he said.  
  
I snorted.  
  
“I’m not, though, am I?” I said bitterly, watching him warily as I carefully sat up. “That’s what you told me. I’m just some… some stray who lives in your house.” I suppressed a twitch as I realised what I’d said. “Lived in your house,” I corrected myself.  
  
To my surprise, he winced.  
  
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” he said gruffly. “You know I didn’t mean that. I was just pissed off with you.” In a stronger voice, he said. “Anyway, it’s not like you don’t say shit to me. Like about my mom.”  
  
I scowled, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the hot flush of shame that prickled my cheeks.  
  
“Well, I was pissed off with you, too,” I told him. “Still am, asshole. And you can get fucked if you think I’m going to apologise for it.”  
  
“Like I’d ever expect that,” he muttered. He moved towards me again, pausing when I tried unsuccessfully to make my body move into a defensive position. Sighing heavily, he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You… fainted or something, and you might have hit your head. I just want to make sure you’re not about to die on me.”  
  
“I’m fine,” I said tightly, even though ‘fine’ was the last thing I was right now. I felt dizzy and sick, my head was throbbing with pain, and every part of me hurt in some way. Not to mention the fact that I was so fucking cold I couldn’t stop shivering to save my life. I grimaced in distaste as I realised that moisture from the wet asphalt was seeping into my clothes. “I just need to get up.”  
  
“Lean on me,” he said — commanded, really — getting to his feet.  
  
“Fuck off,” I snarled, unsettled by his sudden change in demeanour. “I don’t need your goddamn help.”  
  
“Tough shit,” he snarled back. “You don’t get a choice here.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, he manhandled me to my feet, ignoring both my struggles — feeble though they were — and my curses. Galling though it was to admit it, I actually might have (probably would have) fallen over again without his support. (Horrifying as it was to admit it, I couldn’t a damn thing to stop him hauling me around like a sack of potatoes.) There was no way in hell I was telling him that, though. I stifled a yelp as he unceremoniously dumped me on a nearby bench. “You’re welcome, bitch,” he told me, sounding thoroughly exasperated.  
  
I glowered silently at him in lieu of answering, temporarily bereft of words. But then a flash of scarlet drew my eye and, incongruous as it seemed, my ire was replaced by concern.  
  
“You’re bleeding,” I said, watching blood trickle down down his hand to drip onto the wet ground.  
  
“You cut me,” he replied.  
  
“Shouldn’t have tried to choke me, then,” I told him, trying to sound like I didn’t care; trying to pretend that my eyes weren’t fixed on his arm, that I wasn’t trying to figure out how badly I’d hurt him.  
  
“You broke that rule first, bitch,” he said hoarsely, his other hand lifting slightly before he let it drop.  
  
“It was that or slice you to ribbons,” I heard myself say.  
  
There was silence for a beat, and then, “What?”  
  
I sighed.  
  
“I can’t always control my power, you idiot,” I said, the softness of my tone at odds with my words. “Did you think I tried to flay Dad on purpose?” I felt sick, remembering what I’d done to my father, remembering how it had felt to carve through what passed for his flesh to wrap my metal around his bones. It didn’t even matter that it didn’t seem to bother him one iota. I swallowed hard, tearing my eyes away from the trickle of blood running over Lance’s hand to meet his gaze dead on. “Now imagine if I’d done that to you.” He flinched, his eyes flicking briefly to my arms before twitching back up again. “Yeah,” I sighed. “Exactly.”  
  
A spiteful thrill of satisfaction arced through me at the sudden wariness in his eyes. At the same time, though, my conscience pricked me with guilt and an apology, of all things, hovered there on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it back down, of course. No fucking way was I going to apologise to him. Anyway, we were even now. More or less.  
  
“Fucking capes,” he muttered, the words barely audible.  
  
‘Fucking freak,’ echoed in the back of my mind.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, again. I honestly wasn’t sure which one I was agreeing with. I shook my head, and promptly wished I hadn’t when it rewarded me with pain. More pain. Anger suddenly flared up in me, and I found myself leaning forward a little, glaring at him. “What the fuck were you thinking, Lance?”  
  
“I was only going to smack you around a bit,” he said, looking nonplussed. “I wasn’t going to do anything serious.”  
  
“Not then,” I said impatiently. “Now. Confronting a cape all on your lonesome? You have a death wish or something?”  
  
He snorted derisively. “Like it wasn’t obvious to anyone with half a brain that you’re a mess right now,” he sneered. “Seriously. Sunglasses. Wobbling so much a stiff breeze could have knocked you over. Clearly piss-poor situational awareness at best. I was with you at the cabin, Astrid, I know what burnout looks like. Anyway, it’s not-” He broke off suddenly, the disdain on his face melting into a puzzled, wary frown. Less confidently, he continued, “You wouldn’t actually try to kill me. Right?”  
  
I glared at him, or tried to, but I didn’t have the energy to sustain it. The flame of my temper guttered and died. I took a deep breath; exhaled it slowly.  
  
“No, I wouldn’t kill you. Not deliberately, anyway.” I gave him a bitter, lopsided smile. “You might be a fucking prick, but you’re still my brother, for what that’s worth. Asshole.”  
  
“Bitch,” he replied, his voice oddly… soft.  
  
Whatever. Making a decision, I gestured towards his damaged arm.  
  
“Sit down here and let me take a look at that. Can’t have you bleeding out on me now.”  
  
“It’s fine,” he said mulishly. “I don’t need your fucking help.”  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“Sit your ass down, Lance. I won’t bite.” My grin turned feral, my lips pulling away from my teeth. “Not this time, anyway.”  
  
“Psycho bitch,” he muttered. His eyes narrowed. “I’m going to check you over, too. Just in case.” Before I could protest, he spoke one word that stopped me in my tracks. “Truce.”  
  
I went still.  
  
“Fine,” I bit out, despite my misgivings. “Truce it is. For now.”  
  
“For now,” he echoed, and then he finally deigned to lower himself to the bench.  
  
I noted the fact that he staggered slightly as he moved; that he had to stretch his bad leg out in front of him when he sat, rather than bending his knee. Turning to face me, he gave me an unreadable look as he held out his arm.  
  
“Well, your sleeve’s fucked,” I told him lightly, carefully moving the shredded material so I could see what lay beneath it.  
  
Thin, bloody lines sliced into the flesh of his forearm, like someone had slashed him over and over again with a scalpel, or a razor blade.  
  
 _They’re neat, at least,_ I found myself thinking. _Probably won’t even scar visibly. Not much, anyway._  
  
“No shit, Sherlock,” he said, giving me a distinctly jaundiced look. It took me a moment to realise he was replying to I’d said about his sleeve. “You know, it’s not like I have a whole lot of clothes at the moment. And I like this jacket.”  
  
“New, isn’t it?” I asked distractedly, the bulk of my attention on my examination. The cuts were bleeding, but the blood welled up slowly, oozing rather than pouring or, worse, spurting. That was good. It meant I hadn’t sliced open any major vessels.  
  
“New to me,” he said, his tone darkly, cruelly amused.  
  
Unease shivered through me. I thought about asking him which unlucky sod he’d taken it from, and whether they were still breathing at the time, but I left the questions unspoken. There were some things I really didn’t need or want to know.  
  
My examination complete, I delivered my verdict. “Mostly surface damage, but these two are deep enough that they might need a couple of stitches to keep them closed while they heal.” I indicated the cuts in question, and then gave him a jaundiced look of my own. “Especially if you’re going to be going around beating the shit out of people.”  
  
“Thanks, Doc,” he said dryly.  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Have you got anything to bind it with? You’re going to be dripping all the way home if you leave it like that.”  
  
Wherever the fuck home was for him now. But I didn’t want to think about that.  
  
In lieu of answering, he unzipped his jacket and pulled a clear ziplock bag out of the inner packet, presenting it with a flourish, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I took it off him wordlessly, opening it to retrieve a disposable ampoule of saline solution and a sterile dressing. Déjà vu settled over me like a shroud as I cleaned and dressed his wounds with practiced efficiency.  
  
God, how many times had I done this, or something like it? How many times had he done the same for me?  
  
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring your own kit with you,” Lance said, his voice dragging me out of my head. “You’re usually the one who nags me about that kind of shit.”  
  
“Didn’t think I needed it,” I lied. Truth to tell, I hadn’t even thought about it, too caught up in my stupid fucking need to get out of the building. To get some space. To get away.  
  
What the flying fuck had I been thinking?  
  
Without having to be asked, Lance held the dressing in place while I fished out the small roll of bandages and started wrapping his arm.  
  
“You’re getting sloppy,” he said, disapproval written all over his face. “I don’t think you even had the first fucking clue I was following you.” I… I hadn’t. Fuck, I’d barely been aware of anything apart from how shitty I felt. “Thought so.” His voice was poisonous with satisfaction, and I knew he’d seen me flinch. Before I could think better of it, I pressed my fingers against the bandages covering some of his shallower cuts, making him twitch and yelp. “Ow, fuck! Truce, remember? The fuck did you do that for?”  
  
“Oops,” I said, utterly deadpan. “My hand slipped.”  
  
“Lying bitch,” he muttered.  
  
“Patronising bastard,” I grumbled back. I finished with the bandages, and he glowered silently at me as he kept them from slipping while I cut off the excess with the small pair of scissors he had in his kit and then taped the end securely in place. “There. Done. But you’ll want it disinfect it properly and re-dress it when you get inside.”  
  
“And you called me patronising,” he said, rolling his eyes at me as he reclaimed his arm. I didn’t dignify that with a response, busying myself with packing the remains of his kit away. I did keep an eye on him, though, studying him as he checked over my handiwork. Apparently satisfied, he started rearranging his sleeve, presumably trying to make it not immediately obvious that it had been slashed to ribbons. Fuck. I… I couldn’t believe I’d done that. “I can’t believe you actually cut me,” he burst out suddenly, unconsciously echoing my thoughts.  
  
“Well, I can’t believe you pushed me down the stairs,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to shove aside the queasy surge of guilt that twisted my insides. “So I guess that makes us even.”  
  
He twitched a little, his gaze snapping up to mine.  
  
“It was an accident,” he blurted out. “I didn’t mean to. I just… You made me so fucking mad. Acting like you were better than me. Talking shit about my friends. I only meant to give you a few bruises, but I guess I hit you too hard, and you… you fell. I never meant-” He looked away, and then back to me again. “I wouldn’t do that on purpose. Why would you think I would?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked, bewildered. That wasn’t distress in his voice. It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. “It’s not like I ever know why you do half the things you do to me. Anyway, you said… What was it? Oh, yeah. ‘I wish you had broken your stupid fucking neck, you pathetic bitch. At least then I wouldn’t have to put up with your whining.’ More or less your exact goddamn words, if I recall correctly.”  
  
He lunged towards me suddenly. I dropped his first aid kit to the bench and shoved myself backwards, my palms stinging as they pressed against the cold metal. (Metal that would have been mine if my power had been working properly right now, I thought resentfully.) The armrest brought me up short, the edges of it digging painfully into some of my new bruises as he loomed over me.   
  
“What the fuck was I supposed to say?” he practically yelled in my face. “That I lost control? That sometimes, when I lose my temper, I really fucking lose it, and even if I want to hold back, I can’t? That the only thing on my mind back then was making you eat your words, and I didn’t even remember the stairs were there until you went ass over tit?”  
  
He broke off there, glaring at me, his chest heaving as he panted for breath. Shocked as much by the fact that he hadn’t hit me as by his words, I had to blink stupidly at him for a moment or two before I could muster up a response.  
  
“Any of that would have been a start,” I said, frowning as I studied him.  
  
His jaw tensed, as if he was clenching his teeth, and then he slumped back on the bench, staring out into the park with haunted, distant eyes.  
  
“The old man was livid,” he said quietly. “I still have the scars from when he explained to me, at length, just how very badly I fucked up.” I didn’t have the first fucking clue what to say to that. Fortunately, Lance saved me from having to try, turning to face me with a purposeful air. “Right,” he said. “Let me make sure you didn’t crack that thick skull of yours.”  
  
“Asshole,” I muttered, glowering at him when he just smirked. But I shifted around so he could check my head for dents, or whatever. I endured the examination as patiently as I could, answering his stupid questions about what hurt, moving as directed and trying not to flinch whenever he touched me. “How long was I out, anyway?” I asked.  
  
“Not long,” he said. “Half a minute, maybe. A minute, tops.” He frowned, tilting my head from side to side while I resisted the urge to smack his hands away. “Your pupils are dilated.”  
  
“Fucking migraines,” I muttered.  A thought occurred to me. “Did you see where my sunglasses ended up?”  
  
Lance got up got up and looked around, bending to scoop something up of the ground. He straightened slowly, briefly pressing his hand to his side before he limped back to carefully next to me again.  
  
“Here,” he said, holding them out to me.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, accepting them. “What’s up with your knee?”  
  
“None of your fucking business,” he said flatly. He gestured towards my sunglasses. “Are those the same ones you got on the Boardwalk?”  
  
I knew a change of subject when I heard one.  
  
“Yeah,” I said, turning them over in my hands to I could assess the damage. One of the arms was a little bent, and the lenses were scratched and smudged, but they’d do. They’d have to. I half-regretted that I hadn’t been wearing the swimming goggle-type dark glasses the nurse in the infirmary had given me. The strap would have held them in place. Unfortunately, they were unusual enough that I hadn’t wanted to risk attracting the wrong kind of attention. I cleaned the lenses of these on the hem of my tee shirt, and settled them back on my face, suppressing a sigh of relief as the light became less… stabby. “Are you done poking and prodding at me now?” I asked Lance.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “You’ll live.”  
  
“Thanks,” I muttered.  
  
He didn’t say anything, just retrieving his first aid kit from the bench and stuffing it back into his jacket pocket. I made a mental note to check on my own emergency kit when I got back to my… to my room. If I ever got back. If this wasn’t just a stalling tactic. If he wasn’t just keeping me here while Dad came to drag off and discipline me.  
  
“What’s up with you?” Lance asked, his voice making me start, and I realised that I’d gone rigid, my gaze darting around as I searched the park for a familiar hulking figure.  
  
“Why are you here?” I demanded. “You said Dad didn’t send you, we’ve established that you don’t want me around to stop you living the fucking dream. So what the fuck do you want with me?”  
  
He shrugged.  
  
“I don’t know, I just… I heard about Purity fighting Lung, and when I looked it up, I came across footage of the search and rescue afterwards. I saw the PRT’s new pet cape.” He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. “They might have stuffed you in a tin can, but the moment I saw those fucking wires, I knew it was you. Or… Or, I thought it was. But I wasn’t sure. So I decided to come and find out for myself.” His face twisted into a mask of fury, and he whirled on me suddenly. “What the fuck, Astrid? You’re a Ward now? You gave yourself up to the government? Joined the enemy? What the flying fuck were you thinking?”  
  
I thought briefly about denying it, but what was the point? Besides, strange though it seemed, I kind of wanted to talk about it. With Lance, even.  
  
Fucking bizarre.  
  
I watched him warily as I tried to put my thoughts in order.  
  
“I was thinking that if I was going to run again, I needed somewhere to go. And it wasn’t like I had a whole lot of options.”  
  
“But why the fuck would you want to run in the first place?” To my shock, Lance honestly sounded more confused than angry. “We’re your family. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Why would you just up and abandon us like that?”  
  
“It’s… complicated,” I said.  
  
“Then explain it to me in a way I can understand.” His voice was hard now, the anger surfacing again. “You owe me that much, bitch. Or had you forgotten how you fucked us over?”  
  
He had a point there. I hadn’t fucked them over nearly as much as I could have done, of course, but I didn’t think I’d gain anything by pointing that out.  
  
I sighed.  
  
“I don’t want to be Dad’s soldier,” I said, cringing inside as I said the words aloud for the first time in my life. “I don’t want to rule the fucking Empire. I never have.” I swallowed hard. “But can you imagine what he’d do to me if I ever told him that?” He flinched, one hand flying up to brush against his throat before he apparently noticed what he was doing and forced it back down. “Yeah,” I said bleakly.  
  
Lance shifted a little on the bench, huddling into his jacket. I guessed I wasn’t the only one who was cold. It didn’t help that the bench was damp. Still, it was better than sitting on the ground, and I wasn’t sure either of us really felt like standing right now.  
  
“But… why don’t you want that?” he asked suddenly, sounding confused. “If you ran the Empire, you’d have real power. Respect.” His jaw tightened, and he glanced down, studying his hands. “Freedom.” The word seemed to hang between us in the air. It felt… strange. Alien. “No one could make you do anything you didn’t want to do,” he continued. “Not ever. And… And you’d be a force to be reckoned with. Why the fuck wouldn’t you want that?”  
  
I stared at my brother and it felt like I was looking at him over a vast, gaping abyss. I didn’t know how to tell him that even the idea of it horrified me. That hurting and killing people over the colour of their skin was fucked up beyond belief. That there were things I wasn’t willing to do; compromises I refused to make.  
  
Not even for freedom’s sake.  
  
But I didn’t have the first fucking clue how to explain any of that to him in a way he’d even understand, let alone accept, and so I simply didn’t try.  
  
“I just don’t,” I said, instead. “I really, really don’t. But before I got powers, there was always a chance — a slim chance — that Dad would give up on his grand plans for me. That he’d write them off. Once I finally triggered, though…” I swallowed again, but my voice still cracked when I said, “He wasn’t going to stop, Lance. And I barely managed to put myself back together again after the last time he broke me. I’m not sure I could do it again. So I had to get out of there. I… I had to.”  
  
“Do you really think he’s going to let you go? Just like that?” Lance was looking at me like he’d never seen me before.  
  
“Not… not really.” To my shame and disgust, my hands started to shake, so I clenched them tightly into fists, hoping that would stop them betraying my weakness. “That’s why I needed allies. Resources. Protection.” I smiled, but the expression felt strange and unnatural on my face. “It really isn’t personal.”  
  
Lance laughed bitterly.  
  
“I don’t think the old man will see it that way,” he said. “In fact, I think he’s going to take it very fucking personally indeed.”  
  
“Does he know?” I blurted out, my heart hammering in my chest as panic drove it to beat faster and faster.  
  
“Not yet,” Lance said. “It wasn’t in-” He broke off, something like uncertainty passing over his face. He shook himself and tried again. “Right now, his working theory is that CPS put you in some kind of safe house, maybe out of town somewhere.” I almost asked what it was he’d been about to say before he’d obviously changed his mind, but then his face twisted with disgust, his voice dripping with scorn as he added, “On account of how you’re a fucking abuse victim, or some shit.” He raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? Tell me you don’t actually believe that, Astrid. Tell me you’re not really that pathetic.”  
  
“Of course not,” I snapped, furious beyond belief that he’d actually ask me that question. “I just needed a cover story, and given the state I was in at the time, I was pretty sure they’d buy that.” I grimaced, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down my sudden flare of anger at just how easily they’d believed it. “They did.”  
  
“I bet they did,” he said, contemptuously. “Bunch of fucking pussies.” He shook his head, and then fixed me with a thoughtful look. “You know it’s only a matter of time until he realises you’re a Ward. And then he’ll come for you.” He huffed out a breath. “Christ, Triss. Maybe you should just come back with me. The longer you drag this out, the worse it’s going to be for you in the end.”  
  
“I’m not going back,” I snarled, shoving myself forward and almost toppling over. “I told you. I won’t let you take me back.”  
  
“Sit the fuck back down before you end up on your ass again,” he said impatiently. “I’m not taking you anywhere.”  
  
“Fucking right you’re not,” I said, eyeing him warily for a long moment before settling slowly back on the bench.  
  
“Not that you could stop me right now,” he said disdainfully, looking me up and down. “You really did fuck yourself up, didn’t you?” Before I could reply, he casually reached out and, before I could stop him, slapped me across the face. Not hard; just enough to sting. Definitely more than enough to piss me off, though. “What the fuck were you thinking?” he asked. “Why would you even leave the building in this state? What if you’d run into some psycho?”  
  
“I did run into a psycho,” I snapped, elbowing him in the side. “How did you even find me, anyway?”  
  
“Because you can be really fucking predictable, sometimes,” he told me, his lip curling with disgust. “When you get wound up, you go for a walk, and after what went down yesterday, I figured you’d be wound pretty tight. For some godawful reason, you actually like trees and shit, and this is the nearest park to the PRT HQ. There aren’t that many routes between there and here, so I picked the most likely one and staked it out. Pretty sure you can figure out the rest.”  
  
Well, fuck.  
  
“How did you know I’d be at the PRT HQ today?” I asked, trying not to betray my unease at the scope of my fuck up.  
  
I really had deserved the beating he’d given me. Hell, I was lucky I’d gotten off so lightly. It could have been a whole fuck of a lot worse.  
  
“I didn’t,” he said, shrugging. “It was the only lead I had, though, so I took a chance. Guess it paid off.”  
  
“Guess so,” I said sourly.  
  
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he replied, smirking. “Just thank your lucky stars the old man doesn’t know you like I do. And that he doesn’t pay as much attention to the Wards as he does to the Protectorate.”  
  
“Are you going to tell him?” I asked softly, fighting back a wave of nausea.  
  
Lance’s smirk faded. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, sounding tired. “I’m sure as shit not going to tell him I talked to you. I like my skin intact, thank you very fucking much. But…” His eyes took on a shadowed cast, and he tensed visibly. “I might have to tell him you’re a Ward,” he went on to say. “Not right now, maybe, but possibly some time soon.”  
  
“Oh.” I felt numb. “I… guess I should be grateful you’re not ratting me out right now, I suppose.”  
  
“Yeah, you should be,” he said sharply. “Because if he finds out that I knew and I kept it from him, he’s really going to make me regret it.”  
  
“Why would you do that for me?” I asked, bewildered. “Why would you take that risk?”  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “It’s just enlightened self-interest on my part. Like I told you before, you running away was the best fucking thing you ever did for me.”  
  
“I know that,” I said, hurriedly, awkwardly. “But… thanks anyway.”  
  
Well, this was uncomfortable. And so was the realisation that, against all odds, I was actually worried about my asshole brother. From the way Lance shifted and cleared his throat, I had a hunch that I wasn’t the only one feeling pretty fucking awkward right now. I cast about for something to say, but he beat me to the punch.  
  
“If it’s any consolation,” he said, “he’s kind of busy right now. We all are. So, even when he figures out what you did, he won’t necessarily be able to come for you right away.”  
  
“Busy doing what?” I asked suspiciously, a sinking feeling in my stomach.  
  
“We’re… I can’t tell you,” he said, and I was probably wrong — it was probably just the fact that my eyesight was kind of fucked right now — but I almost thought that he looked… stricken. “You’re with the enemy now.”  
  
“I guess I am,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to shove away the sudden, stupid fit of melancholy that threatened to descend over me.  
  
“Are they treating you okay?” he asked, abruptly. “Your new gang, I mean. Your allies. Whatever. Are you settling in alright there?”  
  
I stared at him, completely thrown for a loop by the question.  
  
“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m doing… okay, I think. And I seem to more or less get on with my teammates. Mostly.” Fuck. There were way more feelings here than I was really comfortable with, so I plastered an obnoxious smirk on my face and drawled, “And, hey, no one’s tried to push me down the stairs yet.”  
  
“Bitch,” Lance muttered, but I fancied there was something like amusement in his eyes.  
  
“What?” I said, cheerily. “Too soon, asshole?” I drew breath for another gibe, but hesitated, changing my mind. “Are you doing okay?” I asked.  
  
He was silent for a moment, and then shrugged.  
  
“Yeah, more or less,” he said. He studied me for a moment, frowning, opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowed and then looked away.  
  
I watched the pantomime with bemused irritation.  
  
“Just spit it out, Lance,” I snapped impatiently. “Whatever it is, just say it.”  
  
“No point,” he said wearily, looking over at me with a cynical smile. “You wouldn’t answer anyway.”  
  
I froze.  
  
“You… you want to know how I triggered,” I heard myself ask, my voice barely louder than a whisper.  
  
He was quiet for a moment.  
  
“I’ve got new responsibilities,” he said quietly. “The old man told me… He said he’s been lenient with me up until now, but that has to change. He can’t afford to wait for me to come into my power in my own good time.” I heard the echo of Dad’s voice under his; my mind replaying memories of similar words spoken to me. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his. Our eyes might have been different shades of brown, set differently in our faces, but when I saw the dread that haunted their depths, it was like looking in a fucking mirror. “He hasn’t started with me yet, but he will. Soon. And it’s… He really wants this to happen. So I thought…” He shook his head; a sharp, choppy motion, and when he spoke again his words were bitter and sharp. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know you’re not going to give up your precious secrets.” Leaning forward, he braced his hands on the edge of the bench, and started to shift his weight, preparing to get up. “Anyway, I should get going. Things to do. Take care of yourself, little sister. I guess this is-”  
  
“Wait.” The sound of my own voice startled me about as much as it seemed to startle Lance.  
  
“What?” he asked cautiously, settling back down.  
  
I couldn’t meet his gaze, so I looked down at my hands. They were clenched into fists, I noticed.  
  
“I-” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “When you asked me before, I wasn’t refusing to answer.” This felt surreal; like someone else was speaking. Like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. I realised I was close to hyperventilating, so I forced myself to slow down and take deep, even breaths. “You just caught me by surprise. This shit’s not… not easy to talk about.”  
  
And that was the understatement of the fucking century.  
  
“Okay,” he said slowly, when my voice died and the words stuck in my throat. “I get that, I guess. But he didn’t even do anything to you. We were just having lunch. I thought maybe you’d… figured out some kind of trick. A way to make it happen.”  
  
“I don’t think there are any tricks,” I said. I spoke softly, and he had to lean in a little to hear me over the sound of the wind. “I think that’s kind of the point.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
I took a breath, held it, let it out again slowly.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I told him. “Trying to figure out why it happened then, and not…” Memories bubbled up inside me, and I flinched before I could stop myself, my skin crawling as I shoved those thoughts down again, burying them back where I kept all the shit I didn’t want to think about. “Not some other time,” I managed to finish, keeping my voice level with an effort. “And I think I’ve worked something out.”  
  
“What?” Lance prompted, when the silence stretched again.  
  
I made myself lift my gaze again, even though I half-wanted to bury my head in my hands and pretend he wasn’t there; like I was just talking to myself.  
  
“I don’t know how it is for you,” I said, “but for me, no matter how bad things got, I always… There was always a part of me that thought, if I trigger, this will… It will…”  
  
“He’d stop,” Lance supplied.  
  
“Yes, exactly.” I nodded. “But when I… when it happened, I… I wasn’t thinking that. Not at all. Triggering was the last thing on my mind.”  
  
“What were you thinking about?” he asked.  
  
I heard laughter; a breathless, warbling sound, sharp around the edges and cracked all the way through. It took me a moment to realise that it was mine. It took me another handful of moments to make myself stop.  
  
“I was… I’d just about made up my mind to tell Dad that he could go fuck himself,” I whispered. “That I was done following his orders.”  
  
“What?” Lance practically yelped the word, his eyes like dinner plates as he stared at me like I’d just announced my intention to kiss the Simurgh. “Are you fucking nuts?”  
   
Laughter threatened to bubble up again, but I forced it back down.  
  
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” I drawled, shrugging.  
  
“Was it your Blooding?” he asked, sounding absolutely perplexed. “Is that what brought this fuckwittery on?”  
  
I shivered, but it didn’t have a damn thing to do with the cold. I considered for a moment or two and then made a decision.  
  
“I’m done, Lance,” I said flatly. “I’m not talking about this anymore. I’ve told you everything I’m going to.”  
  
He frowned, and I thought for a moment that he was going to argue, but in the end he just sighed.  
  
“So… to trigger, I have to… not want to trigger?” He shook his head, and the look in his eyes was bleak. “How the fuck am I supposed to manage that?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was surprised to realise I actually meant that.  
  
I was even more surprised when Lance said, “Thank you,” and actually sounded like he meant it. Before I could figure out what to say to that — or even if I should say anything at all, because saying ‘you’re welcome’ would be weird, wouldn’t it? — he continued speaking all in a rush. “There’s something you should probably know,” he told me.  
  
I eyed him cautiously. “What is it?”  
  
“Taking a life… It’s not something you do lightly.” It was my turn to stare now, completely nonplussed. The look in his eyes was shuttered, distant, and I wondered what he was seeing. “Especially the first time. The first time is… hard. It’s okay to have… reservations. That’s normal. And afterwards… You’re different, afterwards. It changes you. But that’s normal too. And that’s how it should be. Once you’ve done it, though, once you’ve taken that first step, it gets…” He frowned, his jaw working as if the words were stuck in his throat. “Not… easier, exactly,” he said thoughtfully, “but… you learn how to carry it without it letting it drag you down. You just… You to do what needs to be done, and then you move on with your life. It’s a skill, like any other. It gets better with practice.”  
  
It was like I’d turned around and ended up in the Twilight Zone. I went back over the conversation in my mind and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how we’d got here.  
  
“Why… Why are you telling me this?” I whispered.  
  
He smiled, and it almost seemed… sad.  
  
“Because you’re a cape,” he told me. “Because you’re the old man’s daughter, and your mother’s daughter, and choosing not to fight isn’t an option for you. Because if you don’t figure that shit out, you’re going to get yourself killed. Because you might be a psycho bitch, but I don’t actually want you dead.”  
  
My head hurt, my eyes hurt, and my throat felt like it was stuffed with barbed wire, but I made myself dredge up a wry grin and drawl, “You know, I think that might actually be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”  
  
Lance snorted. “No need to get mushy about it.” He sighed heavily. “Anyway, I really do have to go.”  
  
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Me too.”  
  
I wanted a shower. I wanted to be able to sit down on something more comfortable than a cold, wet park bench. I wanted to be safely inside the Wards HQ, where I didn’t have to worry about Dad getting his fucking hands on me.  
  
I wanted…  
  
Fuck me. I must have been not in my right mind, because I thought I might actually have wanted some company. Even the thought of Dennis’ presence wasn’t entirely objectionable.  
  
Maybe I actually had hit my head.  
  
Once Lance and I were both on our feet — not the easiest of tasks for either of us at the moment, it seemed — we stood there for a moment, staring at each other awkwardly.  
  
“Don’t let the Wards give you any shit,” Lance said suddenly.  
  
“I’ll do my best,” I said. “You remember to take care of those cuts.”  
  
“Yes, **Mom**.” I glowered at him, and he laughed quietly before his expression sobered again. “So,” he said.  
  
“So,” I echoed.  
  
Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “We’re on opposite sides now, I guess. Means we might end up going up against each other one of these days.”  
  
“Guess so,” I replied uneasily, wondering whether my gut was roiling because of that or because of the fucking migraine.  
  
He grinned suddenly, fiercely. “You’d better not expect me to go easy on you, Triss.”  
  
I laughed. “I never do, Lance. I never do. Just don’t expect me to go easy on you, either.”  
  
“When do you ever?” he replied, looking meaningfully at the arm I’d sliced up. “Psycho bitch.”  
  
“Fucking asshole.”  
  
And on that bizarrely familiar note, we went our separate ways.


	44. Aphenphosmphobia 3.17

_This,_ I thought to myself, as horror turned my blood to ice in my veins, _is a complete fucking disaster._  
  
Thanks to my hypersensitive skin, the shower I’d been anticipating so fervently had been like standing under a rain of needles. Plus, no matter how I fiddled with the settings, the water alternately scalded or froze me, the concept of a comfortable temperature having apparently been neatly excised from my reality for the time being. When that torment was over, I couldn’t use my power to simply slough off the water, so I had to dry myself the old-fashioned way. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, apart from the fact that, apparently, someone had replaced the towels in the Wards HQ with sandpaper while I wasn’t looking.  
  
Bastards.  
  
Anyway, all of that was irritating enough by itself, even without taking into account the constant, nagging awareness of the new bumps and bruises from my earlier conversation with Lance. I wasn’t sure if that was a side-effect of the migraine, or if it was just the fact that I now had a baseline for what it felt like to be completely undamaged. Maybe the contrast just made it seem worse than it really was. Whatever the reason, I really hoped my apparent inability to shut the damn thing off was just a temporary aberration. The absolute last fucking thing I needed was to go soft.  
  
Still, in the grand scheme of things, those were all relatively minor concerns. Annoying, yes, but not insurmountable. Nothing I couldn’t cope with.  
  
Until now.  
  
Pain, I could endure. Mere discomfort, I could shrug off with nary a thought. But this latest indignity would have sent even the most stoic individual into a frenzy of wailing and gnashing of teeth. It was a catastrophe of truly epic proportions.  
  
I was so fucking hungry right now it felt like my stomach was eating itself, but when I swung by the kitchen with the intent of taking steps to fill the gaping void in my midsection, it turned out that… that…  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I was too fucking nauseous to actually eat!  
  
Maybe I really had suffered an aneurysm last night. Maybe I’d died and wound up in one of the deepest pits of hell. Maybe this was a torment lovingly crafted for me by my own personal demon.  
  
Or… maybe I was being a touch melodramatic.  
  
Anyway, this would pass, right? Maybe soon? Maybe really soon, like now-ish? So I was probably just getting worked up over nothing. Hell, I thought my stomach might already have settled quite a bit, so maybe it would be fine after all.  
  
And then I could laugh about how completely and utterly ridiculous I was being.  
  
_Okay. Alright. Fine. Operation ‘Make a Goddamn Sandwich,’ take two._

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

I couldn’t help a small flare of triumph as I placed the second slice of bread on top.  
  
_Objective complete, motherfucker._  
  
I carried the sandwich over to the table, where it sat like an unexploded bomb as I set about clearing up the mess I’d made.  
   
Inanimate object or not, I felt like it was taunting me.  
  
Eventually, there was nothing else to wash up or tidy away. The place was as clean as it was going to get, at least until I felt brave enough to break out the disinfectant. I guessed that meant there was no point in procrastinating any longer. It was time for the moment of truth.  
  
Specifically, it was time for Operation ‘Eat the Goddamn Sandwich.’  
  
_Right. Okay._  
  
With a certain amount of trepidation, I retrieved another knife and cut the Goddamn Sandwich neatly in half. And then I rinsed the knife, which totally wasn’t procrastinating at all, because I couldn’t very well have left it lying around unwashed now, could I? Unlike certain of my teammates — Dennis — **I** wasn’t slovenly.  
  
Ahem.  
  
Anyway.  
  
I sat down at the table and regarded the deceptively innocuous-seeming source of my agitation. My stomach rumbled. God, I was hungry. But that was a good sign, right? It meant that my appetite might actually have a hope in hell of triumphing over my queasiness.  
  
Or so I hoped.  
  
I took a breath, and suddenly got a strong whiff of the cheddar. Normally I loved the smell of it, all tart and ripe and rich, but right now it hit me like a punch to the gut, like Lance had hit me earlier, and just like then, my stomach clenched. I scrambled to my feet, backing away from the table, from the sandwich, and grabbing for the counter to steady myself.  
  
_No,_ I thought sternly, miserably, as if I could have settled my roiling stomach through willpower alone. But if I could’ve done that, then I wouldn’t have been having this problem in the first place. I didn’t end up retching, at least, which was some comfort. It was, however, time to admit the awful, awful truth.  
  
Operation ‘Eat the Goddamn Sandwich’ wasn’t going to happen.  
  
_No!_ I thought, again, this time as a mournful wail. _This is just **cruel**._  
  
I almost — almost — wanted to cry.  
  
Instead, I sagged against the edge of the counter and sighed heavily, black despair settling over me like a shroud.  
  
I should… I should put the sandwich in a tupperware container and stick it in the fridge. The sooner I did that, the longer it would keep. The fresher it would be when I finally managed to eat it.  
  
If I actually managed to eat it.  
  
I sighed again, letting my head hang forward to I didn’t have to see that fucking sandwich. I’d make myself move in a moment or two; I would. I just…  
  
I was so fucking done with today.  
  
It was at this point, when I was wallowing, when I was at my lowest ebb, when I just didn’t think that I could take any more, that I heard the sound of footsteps approaching.  
  
Fucking figured.  
  
I supposed it had been nothing short of miraculous that I hadn’t run into anyone else since returning from my walk. I should’ve known my luck would pick the worst possible time to run out. Why the fuck wouldn’t it?  
  
I sighed again, and forced myself to stand up straight. In an effort to make myself not look as utterly pathetic as I felt right now, I crossed to the cupboard where the storage containers were kept, and started rootling through it.  
  
A moment later, I heard someone enter the kitchen.  
  
“Oh, hey, Astrid,” Chris said brightly. “I didn’t realise you’d been released from the infirmary yet.”  
  
I didn’t turn around, even though it made me feel antsy to have someone at my back. Less antsy than if he’d been, say, Carlos, or even Dennis, but the back of my neck still prickled uneasily. Chris might have seemed like a puppy, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a threat. Even if I did sometimes have trouble remembering that.

  
I hoped he didn’t think I was being rude. I knew it was ridiculous of me, but I just… I wanted to put off the inevitable moment when he saw the state Lance had left me in. I mean, there wasn't that much in the way of visible damage, and what there was hadn’t yet turned purple, so there was a chance Chris might not notice right away. But, if and when he did notice… Given the things he’d said before Panacea had fixed my previous damage, I had a feeling he’d blow it all out of proportion. And if there was one thing I didn’t need right now, it was more fucking pity.  
  
(An unreasonable part of my mind pointed out that, as I’d had fucking fractures at the time, maybe his concern back then hadn’t been entirely unwarranted. But I didn’t want to think about that right now, and so I didn’t.)  
  
“Hi Chris,” I said, deliberately not commenting on his observation.  
  
I… may possibly have been a touch misleading in my earlier brief responses to my teammates’ messages of concern. In my defence, I had really not been in a fit state for company after OB’s dressing down, and I figured there was less chance someone barging in to check up on me if they didn’t think I was actually in the Wards HQ. I never actually said I was going to rest in the infirmary for a while, but I may have implied it. And if they took that implication to mean that I hadn’t been discharged yet, well… I never actually said that. Not a lie, technically. Not a word of what I’d written was untrue at the time I’d written it.  
  
Anyway, I had been planning to rest when I’d sent the messages. Things just… hadn’t worked out that way.  
  
”I was starting to worry,” he continued, when I didn’t say anything further. I tensed a little as I heard him move towards me. “Not that I wasn’t already worried, of course. Missy said you went blind! And then collapsed! Were you really covered in blood? Are you okay? No, wait; that’s a stupid question. Are you feeling better, at least? I guess you must be if you’re up and around. The doctor wouldn’t have let you out unless they were sure you’d be alright walking and stuff, would they? Uh, assuming they did actually let you out, of course. I mean, um…”  
  
“I didn’t stage a daring breakout, if that’s what you were wondering,” I said dryly, squelching the brief flare of irritation as best as I could. First OB, and now Chris? Why the fuck did people keep assuming I was the kind of person who would flee the infirmary against medical advice? I wasn’t that bad!  
  
I continued to search the cupboard for a suitable container. It had to be large enough for the sandwich to fit, but not so large that it could move around too much. Surely there must be something…  
  
“Oh, no. No, of course not,” Chris babbled unconvincingly. “I didn’t mean, um… I’m just rambling. I do that sometimes. Ignore me.”  
  
“I’m not offended,” I assured him. I critically eyed a container I’d dug out of the cupboard, turning it this way and that. It looked about the right size, but I wouldn’t know for sure until I measured it against the sandwich. Which, of course, meant turning around and- “Anyway, I like your rambling,” I heard myself say, my train of thought completely derailed by the words coming out of my mouth.  
  
Goddammit, brain!  
  
I mean, it wasn’t untrue, and I had kind of said the same thing before, but that wasn’t the point.  
  
“I think you might be the only one,” Chris said, after a moment, his tone rueful but… pleased? “But thanks. It’s nice of you to say.” I heard him shuffling his feet. “So,” he continued, “if it’s not too stupid a question, how are you doing?”  
  
“I’m fine, thanks,” I lied, some stupid impulse compelling me to add, “or, I will be. I just need to take it a little easy today.”  
  
I almost cringed to hear those words coming out of my own mouth. Christ. ‘Taking it easy.’ No matter how necessary it might have been, it just felt… wrong. Not, I noted, that I’d precisely been doing a superlative job of it so far. I held in a wince as I shifted position and my sore ribs pulled, trying to console myself with the thought that there was still plenty of time left for lazing around, or whatever. As long as I was careful, and didn’t do anything stupid like challenging Hess to another ‘friendly’ sparring match, I was sure I’d bounce back quickly enough.  
  
Or so I hoped.  
  
“Do you need anything?” Chris asked, suddenly. “Can I… Can I get you anything, I mean? If there is anything, just ask, okay? Anything at all. I mean it.”  
  
I smiled despite myself, despite the fact that my usual, instinctive response to offered help was to snarl that I didn’t fucking need it, thank you very much. But I was touched by the clear sincerity in his voice, and by the… the… undemanding nature of his words. He wasn’t insisting, or patronising, or taking the decision out of my hands. He was just… offering. And not even because he thought I was weak, or pathetic, or frail. Just because he was nice, and he wanted to help. That made me feel… It made me feel. Stuff. Warm and fuzzy stuff. And my stupid cheeks were already starting to bloom with heat, so I needed a distraction, and I needed one now. Anger was right out, of course, so that left only one option: humour.  
  
Fortunately, he’d given me the perfect set up.  
  
“You keep promising me ‘anything,’ Chris,” I drawled. “If you’re not careful, one of these days I’ll take you up on it.” In response, he made the most peculiar noise. It… sounded like he was choking. Worried, I turned around to see him staring at me with the strangest expression on his face as he coughed and spluttered. “Are you okay?” I asked, not sure what to do. “What happened? Can I help?”  
  
“F- fine,” he wheezed, waving his hands around in a vague, flailing kind of manner. “I’m… fine. It’s nothing.”  
  
“It doesn’t sound like nothing,” I said, crossing the short distance to his side, where I hesitated, unsure what to do. I covered my concern with a smile. “I’m starting to wonder if you need CPR.” He choked again, and I couldn’t help noticing that he’d gone bright red, even the tips of his ears. “Maybe a glass of water?” I asked, helplessly.  
  
“Please,” he croaked out, between coughs. Quickly retrieving a glass, I filled it from the tap and wordlessly held it out to him. “Thanks,” he said.  
  
“You’re welcome.” I watched him as he drank, relieved that the water seemed to be helping. He coughed a couple more times, but the danger seemed to have passed. “What brought that on?” I wondered.  
  
He gave me a slightly sceptical look. “You have to ask?” He shook his head, grinning ruefully. “I think you’ve been spending too much time around Dennis.”  
  
“Probably,” I agreed. “But I don’t think what I said was quite that bad.” I turned the words over in my mind, tried to imagine what slant Dennis would have put on them, and froze, my eyes widening. “Oh. Oh, no. No, that wasn’t… I didn’t mean… I- I wouldn’t…”  
  
The realisation of what he’d thought I meant set my cheeks ablaze, and I struggled vainly to find the words to explain that I’d just been gently poking fun at his phrasing, not suggesting… what he thought I was suggesting. But the words wouldn’t come, and so I just stared helplessly at him, willing him to understand.  
  
“Oh, um, okay,” he said, hunching his shoulders slightly. “Sorry. Of course.” He looked down at the almost empty glass in his hands, awkwardly fidgeting in place.  
  
Shit. Now he looked kind of… down, and I didn’t know why. Had I insulted him? Hellfire and damnation! Why did I suck so much at this?  
  
I glanced around the kitchen, searching for inspiration and, to my very great surprise, actually found it. I carefully crossed to the table and picked the inspiration up, and then carried it back to Chris.  
  
“Hey, Chris?”  
  
“Yeah?” He looked up, giving me a shy smile, although I still thought his eyes seemed a touch sad. It… kind of hurt a little to see that. Probably because it was my fault. Somehow.  
  
“Do you want a sandwich?” I held out the plate, keeping my breathing shallow and my eyes up, on Chris, lest I suffer a repeat of the earlier unpleasantness. “It’s cheddar cheese and salad. I just made it.”  
  
Chris looked down at the sandwich, and then back up at me. On the plus side, at least his expression now looked puzzled, rather than sad.  
  
“Don’t you want it?”  
  
I sighed, unable to keep myself from wilting a little. “More than anything,” I admitted mournfully, “but I’m apparently too sick to eat right now.” My stomach twisted a little, and I couldn’t hold in a grimace. “Even just thinking about eating makes me nauseous.”  
  
“That sounds awful,” he said sympathetically. “Is there anything I can do?”  
  
“Not unless you can make a laser gun that cures migraines,” I replied dryly.  
  
“Unfortunately not,” he said, and then frowned, tilting his head to one side as his gaze went distant. “Although… maybe…” He muttered something largely unintelligible, although I could make out the odd word like ‘oscillation’ and ‘neuromodulatory signal’ and ‘frequency targeting.’ I just about had time to wonder uneasily what I’d set in motion before he shook himself, apparently snapping out of his… tinker trance? “Sorry,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Just got briefly inspired.”  
  
“You don’t need to apologise for that,” I told him. Smiling, I continued, “Anyway, if you do end up making a migraine-be-gone gun, you would have my eternal gratitude. Seriously.”  
  
He flushed again, for some reason.  
  
“Yeah, well, don’t get your hopes up,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t end up finishing half the things I start. More than half, even.” There was a sour edge to his voice, but before I could ask him about it, he took a breath and plastered a smile on his face. “So, are you sure about the sandwich? You don’t want to save it for later?”  
  
If I’d known him a little better, I thought I would have tried to ask him if he wanted to talk about whatever issue he was having with his tinkering work. It was obviously bothering him. Right now, though, I didn’t trust myself to press the issue without fucking it up, especially when he clearly wanted to change the subject.  
  
“There’s no guarantee I’ll want it before it goes stale,” I said, my tone of voice a little too close to a whine for my liking. I made an effort to brighten it as I continued, “And I’d rather not risk wasting food if I don’t have to. Really, you’d be doing me a favour.”  
  
“Oh, well, in that case, I would love a sandwich, thank you,” he said, his smiling turning a little more genuine. “I was thinking of making myself one, anyway. I’m actually pretty hungry.”  
  
“Perfect,” I said, giving him the plate. I couldn’t lie, I did feel a pang as I handed it over, but I also felt a flare of relief at the fact that it wouldn’t be going to waste. I put the now-unneeded tupperware container back in the cupboard  as Chris sat at the table to eat.  
  
He picked up half of the sandwich, and I felt my mouth water even as my stomach roiled queasily. Lifting it to his lips, he went to take a bite, and then… hesitated. I bit my tongue on an exhortation to just get the fuck on with it already.  
  
“Is it going to bother you if I eat it here?” he asked, sounding uncertain. “I don’t want you to get sick again.”  
  
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” I assured him, touched by his consideration. “Anyway,” I continued, grinning. “At least this way, I get to enjoy it vicariously.” The second-guessing started almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, of course. Maybe even before. “Unless you mind me hanging around,” I hastened to add. “And I don’t want to keep you from, uh, tinkering or training or whatever.”  
  
“Of course I don’t mind you being here,” he was quick to assure me. “I… I like you being here.”  
  
I wondered idly which of the two of us had the pinkest cheeks right about now. Chris’ flush was pretty impressive, for sure, but my face felt like it was on fire. Not… not in a bad way, though, I thought. If anything, it was kind of… nice… to hear someone to say they actually wanted me around.  
  
(Was this why Lance tried to make friends at whichever shitty school we ended up attending whenever we moved to a new place? Was it stupid to feel a pang of regret that I didn’t do the same? Was it weak of me to wonder if things would be, could be different at Arcadia?)  
  
I found an undoubtedly stupid-looking smile on my face without any kind of deliberate action on my part.  
  
“Thanks,” I said, which was probably stupid, and probably the wrong thing, but Chris just smiled back at me like he, at least, didn’t think I was an idiot. I felt myself relax a little in a way I hadn’t since waking up this morning.  
  
“Anyway,” he said, a moment later, “you’re not keeping me from anything. I’m just taking a break from math homework. And, believe me, you are more than welcome to distract me from that.” He pulled a face. (I tried to tell myself I didn’t miss his smile; not even a little.)  
  
“How come you’re doing your homework here?” I asked.  
  
“Because I’m planning on hitting the workshop once I’m done. Assuming Dennis actually lets me go sometime today.” My confusion must have shown on my face, because he explained, “Dennis is tutoring me.”  
  
“Dennis,” I repeated sceptically, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”  
  
Chris laughed. “I know, he doesn’t seem like the obvious choice, but he’s actually pretty good at keeping me on track. And sometimes I really need someone to do that.” Almost under his breath, he added, dejectedly, “Okay, a lot of the time.”  
  
“I see,” I said, wondering if there was anything I could do to help Chris out of his current fit of melancholy.  
  
“Anyway,” he said determinedly, before I was struck by any bolts of inspiration. “I’d better get started on this sandwich before Dennis comes to drag me back to math hell.” Without further ado, he raised it to his mouth and took a bite, making a surprised noise. “That cheese is strong,” he said, after a moment.  
  
“I guess,” I said, leaning against the counter top as I felt briefly lightheaded. “I do like a mature cheddar.” I studied him as he took another bite. “Is… Is it okay?” I heard myself ask, wanting to kick myself at the stupid, tremulous note to my voice. It was just a fucking sandwich. Jesus Christ almighty, I really needed to get a grip.  
  
“Yeah, it’s really good,” Chris assured me, practically beaming.  
  
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who was up and down today. I tried to tell myself I didn’t feel relieved at his answer. Or about the fact that the evident enthusiasm with which he practically inhaled the sandwich suggested that he’d been telling the truth. Or, at least, that he was hungry enough not to care how it tasted. Either way, I was glad I’d given it to him.  
  
Honestly, I was just relieved that it wasn’t going to go to waste.  
  
I got myself a glass of water, mainly so I wasn’t just standing there watching him eat. Somehow, I doubted Chris would have appreciated me staring intently at him with a mixture of nausea and longing. My stomach rumbled loudly, annoyingly, and I felt myself flush with embarrassment.  
  
“Sorry,” I muttered.  
  
“You don’t need to apologise,” he said. I glanced over to see him looking at me with concern. “You must be starving right now.”  
  
“Certainly fucking feels like it,” I muttered, scowling. “But every time I even think about eating, I feel like I’m going to throw up.” I tried to remain stoic, to keep my goddamn feelings under control, but I couldn’t help growling, “It really fucking sucks.”  
  
“Yeah.” There was an odd note to his voice, and I glanced over to see him studying me thoughtfully as he chewed. Swallowing his bite of sandwich, he took an audible breath. “You said…” He trailed off, cleared his throat and tried again, his voice tentative. “When Rory was here, you, uh, said you’d rather be hit than go hungry.”  
  
Oh. Right. I had said that, hadn’t I?  
  
I should probably have dissembled, maybe thrown out another ‘hypothetically’ or two, but right at the moment I found I didn’t actually have any fucks left to give.  
  
“Yeah,” I said shortly. “I fucking meant it, too.”  
  
“Was it… Was your family short of money?” Chris froze suddenly, his eyes flying wide. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s none of my business. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to be an asshole.”  
  
“You weren’t, don’t worry,” I assured him, somehow finding a smile on my lips. “I’m not sure you could be an asshole if you tried, Chris.”  
  
‘He’s weak,’ my Dad’s voice whispered.  
  
_He’s * **nice** ,_ I corrected. _That’s not a bad thing._  
  
At least as long as he learned how to look after himself. But that was something I could help him with, if he let me.  
  
(If I could figure out a way to do so without compromising the things that made him who he was.)  
  
“Oh. Um. Thanks.” Bright red again, he took another bite of the rapidly diminishing sandwich.  
  
My smile faded as I tried to figure out a way to answer his question.  
  
“We… My family never had a lot of money,” I said. “But not being able to afford food wasn’t the problem.”  
  
Turned out there was some truth to the aphorism ‘crime doesn’t pay.’ Rather, it did, but not very well. And certainly not consistently. If Dad got a decent merc contract, we could end up pretty flush for a short while. Unsurprisingly, though, ripping off shitty little gangs and pulling heists small enough to stay under the radar didn’t exactly net the big bucks, especially when the proceeds were split several ways.  
  
There was a reason most of my school textbooks over the years had been ‘acquired,’ rather than bought.  
  
“Then why…?” Chris’ mouth opened and closed a couple of times, a lost look in his eyes.  
  
I took pity on him.  
  
“Why do I know what it’s like to go hungry?” He nodded wordlessly. I sighed. “Motivation. Or punishment.”  Or, yet another fucking failed attempt to force me to trigger.  
  
My stomach rumbled again, maybe at the memories almost as much as at its current state of near vacuum.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Wasn’t it obvious? Well… Maybe not to someone whose parents were soft on them, like his obviously were.  
  
“Complete the task I’d been given, and then I could eat. Alternatively, fuck up in some way and miss a meal. Maybe more than one if I fucked up badly enough.” Or, spend some unknown number of days on nothing but water and, at most, minimal rations, not knowing when, or even if, I’d next be allowed to eat a proper meal. All the while, half-hoping, half-dreading that this would be the thing that finally tipped me over the edge and got me powers. “Pretty straightforward, really.” My voice was hoarse, and I sounded… haunted. I felt haunted. Memories possessed me like malevolent ghosts; like demons I didn’t know how to exorcise. The only thing I could do was what I’d always done, which was try to bury them in the darkest depths of my mind. “Not to mention pretty fucking effective,” I said.  
  
Not the attempt to trigger me, of course. That, like all the rest, had been singularly ineffective. And if the hypothesis I’d shared with Lance had been correct, those attempts — the whole fucking endeavour, even — might have been doomed to failure right before they even began. If that was the case, then all that suffering I’d endured, all the pain, and more, that Dad had put me through in the name of ‘helping me to come into my power’ had been… pointless.  
  
It almost felt like someone else was speaking; like I wasn’t really here. Like someone else opened their mouth to add, “And I hate it. I… I really fucking hate it. Pain, I can tune out. Or, at least I can when I’m not afflicted with a goddamn migraine. Being hungry, though? That just… It doesn’t go away. No matter what you’re doing, or how you try to distract yourself, it’s always there. And it just… It makes everything else so much harder.” I shook my head; had to bite my tongue when my headache spiked. “I hate it,” I said again, helplessly.  
  
In an effort to distract myself, I washed up my glass, and then gathered up Chris’ glass and washed that, too.  
  
It didn’t help as much as I would have hoped.  
  
My heart was racing, my face hot in a way that didn’t feel like embarrassment. I was embarrassed, of course. How could I not be? I was essentially confessing to Chris just how much of a fuck up I was. If I wasn’t, then Dad wouldn’t have had to resort to such measures to train me to an acceptable level of competence. But there was something else under the embarrassment, something that burned hot and bright in my chest; made my head pound and my hands clench into fists of their own accord.  
  
“I’m really sorry, Astrid.”  
  
The room wavered around me and I realised I’d whirled around fast, too fast, bracing myself on the edge of the sink with one hand as I fought the darkness encroaching at the edges of my vision, of my mind. For a heartbeat, a lifetime, I stared at the boy who’d just spoken and I… I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know **where** I was, and Dad was going to beat me bloody for not maintaining my situational awareness, and… and…  
  
And then the haze lifted, strangeness peeling away to reveal the familiarity that had been there all along.  
  
Fuck. That had been… That had been weird. But Chris was looking at me, and the silence was stretching like elastic, so I had to get my shit together and figure out what to say.  
  
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I wasn’t asking for pity.”  
  
My tone was sharper than I’d intended, instinct driving me to cover unease with anger, to hide weakness with at least the seeming of strength, as if I hadn’t just had some kind of… episode. As if I hadn’t just whined like a fucking child when I just have just kept my goddamn mouth shut.  
  
_What the fuck is wrong with me?_  
  
“N- no, that wasn’t…” I half-expected Chris to crumple like paper; maybe even flee the kitchen. (To run away from the psycho bitch, just like everyone else did, eventually.) He surprised me, though, drawing himself up straight and meeting my gaze. “I don’t pity you,” he said simply, his voice level. “I just hate that you went through something like that. That… someone… did that to you.”  
  
I stared at him for a moment, my chest knotted tight.  
  
“It wasn’t that bad,” I muttered eventually, embarrassment scalding me like boiling water.  
  
“But you said-”  
  
“I know what I said!” I snapped without meaning to. “But you don’t know the first fucking thing about it. So don’t try to act like you do.”  
  
“I wasn’t,” he said swiftly, placatingly. “I’m not. Or, at least, I’m not trying to.”  
  
He was starting to look alarmed, which probably meant he had a functioning survival instinct. It felt like my whole body was vibrating with a restless, reckless kind of wild energy, and I couldn’t stay still any longer, stalking forward to loom over him, forcing him to crane his neck to look up at me.  
  
“Then just forget I said anything,” I damn near growled, just itching for him to give me an excuse to… to…  
  
“I can’t do that,” he said quietly, the words almost tumbling over each other. “I can’t just forget it. How can I? That’s… It’s messed up, Astrid. Really messed up. It’s… It’s **wrong**.”  
  
Of course he didn’t understand. How the fuck could he, as coddled as he obviously was?  
  
His parents had a fuck of a lot to answer for.  
  
“Don’t be so fucking naive.” My voice was harsh, almost unrecognisable, and part of me wanted to call the words back as soon as I’d spoken them, but part of me… didn’t. And that part of me felt a sick sort of satisfaction at seeing the way he jumped at my words, seeing the uncertainty that flickered in his eyes. I was completely fucking furious right now, and I didn’t even know why, but I wasn’t sure I could’ve made myself stand down if I wanted to, and I…  
  
I really didn’t want to.  
  
I looked at Chris and, for an instant — a brief, heartstopping, stomach-churning instant — I **hated** him for making me feel this way.  
  
“A- Are you going to hit me?”  
  
“What?” My breath caught in my throat, my whole body going rigid with shock. Shit! What was I doing? What the fuck was I even thinking? This was **Chris**. “No! No, of course not not. I- I wouldn’t. I **wouldn’t**.”  
  
(No matter how much, mere moments ago, a part of me really had wanted to smash his fucking face in.)  
  
I stared at him, horrified, noting the way he’d braced his hands on the edge of the table; the way his whole body was tense. The way he seemed on the verge of shoving himself away from me.  
  
“You seem pretty mad right now,” he said carefully.  
  
“I am,” I said, my voice cracking on the words, painfully aware of the rage simmering beneath the curdled shame and misery. “But not at you.” I couldn’t look at him right now — too much of a fucking coward to face the wariness I’d put in his eyes — so I turned away, putting a few steps’ worth of space between us. “I’m sorry,” I said, willing him to believe me. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”  
  
I watched my hands move as if they belonged to someone else, the fingers of my right hand finding one of the bruises on my left forearm and pressing against it, no, digging into it, increasing the pressure until I had to stifle a gasp of pain.  
  
_Not Chris,_ I told myself firmly, focusing on the pain, on the shame, on the self-loathing. _He is **not** an acceptable target. Not now, not ever._  
  
“Are you okay?” The question, soft as it was, made me flinch.  
  
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I aimed for humour and missed, my voice emerging shaky and miserable. Kind of appropriate, given that was how I felt.  
  
“I’m fine,” he said. I heard him shift around and tensed, but he didn’t get up. “Astrid, you didn’t do anything.”  
  
“I yelled at you,” I muttered, unable to stop myself hunching a little. “I…” _scared you,_ I thought, but didn’t say. “You thought I was going to hit you.”  
  
“Well, you didn’t,” he pointed out, in what I thought was an inappropriately casual manner. There was a pause, like he was waiting for a response, but I had no words to give him right now, and so the silence stretched until he said, quietly, “Please tell me you’re not about to offer to let me hit you.”  
  
I started a little, my cheeks heating. I hadn’t specifically been thinking that, not exactly, but…  
  
“Maybe you should.” My voice sounded weird and echoey in my ears. “It’s the only way I ever fucking learn anything.”  
  
(‘How many fucking times, girl? How many times am I going to have to beat this lesson into you before it sticks? If you can’t control yourself, then other people, stronger people, will control you. It’s that fucking simple. One way or another, so help me God, I am going to get that through your thick skull.’)  
  
“ **No** , Astrid.” The legs of his chair scraped over the linoleum, and I turned around in time to see him get to his feet and move towards me. I froze, and so did he, his expression stricken. “Sorry,” he said. “I, uh, I keep forgetting.”  
  
“Forgetting what?” I asked, eyeing him warily.  
  
He shrugged, giving me a sad smile. “That you don’t do hugs.” His face went a little red and, all in a rush, he added, ‘B- Because, you know, y- you really seem like you could use a hug right about n- now.”  
  
For a moment, all I could do was stare at him, but then, against my better judgement, I forced myself to answer, “You can if you want.”  
  
It was his turn to stare, his eyes almost comically wide. “Really?” His voice was soft, almost hesitant.  
  
The way he looked at me then, it was like I’d just offered him the sun, moon and stars. It made me feel really fucking weird. But, despite my misgivings, I nodded, making myself shrug like my heart wasn’t trying to hammer its way out through my ribcage.  
  
“Sure,” I said.  
  
His movements were just as hesitant as his question had been, his demeanour not threatening in the slightest. Even so — even telling myself that Chris really was a puppy, that he wasn’t just putting on an act so I’d let my guard down — I couldn’t help twitching and tensing as the space between us dwindled and diminished. My skin crawled in anticipation as I tried to brace myself, to lock my instincts down so I didn’t lash out and hurt him, but rather than reaching for me, he just stood there, his brow creasing into a frown.  
  
“You’re not…” he began, and then trailed off, pulling a face. He took a breath and tried again, cautiously, tremulously, “You, uh, didn’t agree because you thought it was what I w- wanted to hear, did you?”  
  
“What difference does it make?”  
  
He went so still, it was almost like he’d been frozen in time.  
  
“Astrid…” He almost breathed my name, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. “It makes all the difference.” Sighing softly, he met my eyes and curved his lips in a sad-seeming smile. “You don’t really want me to hug you.”  
  
It wasn’t really a question, but I shook my head anyway.  
  
“It’s really not you,” I told him, hoping he’d believe me. But, just because it was the truth, that didn’t mean I’d actually manage to make it sound convincing. And it certainly didn’t mean it would actually help worth a damn. “Like I said before, I just… I don’t like to be touched.” I meant to stop there, but the words just kept coming. It felt like they’d suffocate me, like I’d choke on them if I didn’t set them free. “Outside of training, or first aid, the only people who put their hands on me a- are the ones I can’t stop. It makes me feel so fucking… helpless to even think about letting someone get that close, and I- I can’t, I won’t… won’t let someone do that to me. Make me feel that way. Not if I don’t have to. B- But you asked, Chris, and I l- like you. More importantly, I… I *] **owe** you for… for what I almost did. For what I have done. So if… if you really want to hug me, you… you can. And maybe… maybe it won’t…”  
  
_It wasn’t so bad with Victoria,_ I couldn’t help thinking. _If anything, that was… It was actually nice_.  
  
(And she hadn’t hurt me, even though she could have done, easily. Even though she was a brute.)  
  
Sure, apart from aura shenanigans (and Dad deciding I’d earned some gentleness, like when he stroked my hair and told me he was proud of me), any contact, especially contact I didn’t initiate, was something to be endured, not enjoyed. But… But maybe…  
  
“If you were anyone else,” I found myself saying, “I think I’d probably have smacked you already. So maybe that means something. Maybe that means it’ll be… okay. So you can. If you want. I won’t… stop you.”  
  
I could stop him, if I chose. I knew I could. So maybe… maybe knowing that would be enough to make it… okay.  
  
But I must have fucked up, or put my foot in it somehow, because Chris was looking at me like I really had hit him. He’d gone chalk white, his jaw slack and his eyes wide, almost as if he was in pain. He backed away from me, slowly, until he reached the kitchen table. Blindly pulling out a chair, he collapsed onto it heavily, like a puppet that had just had its strings cut. I watched him, confused, as he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand, before looking at me with an expression of such sadness that it brought a lump to my own throat.  
  
“Did I… say something wrong?” I asked helplessly, as he struggled, and failed, to speak. “Have I done something to upset you?”  
  
He shook his head quickly, jerkily, and finally found his voice.  
  
“No, Astrid.” The words were spoken softly, hoarsely; a strange, thick quality to his voice almost as if he was choking back tears. “You haven’t upset me.”  
  
“You’re upset,” I pointed out, quelling the urge to pace; to do something with the restless energy zipping along my nerves and making me twitchy.  
  
“That’s not your fault. It’s just…” He trailed off into a sigh. “Just give me a minute?”  
  
“Okay,” I said, deeply confused.  
  
I watched him as he closed his eyes for a moment, slumping a little in his seat. I wasn’t sure what to think about the fact that he apparently trusted me enough to let his guard down like that. Then again, he probably did that with everybody. (I made a mental note to talk to him at some point about the importance of maintaining situational awareness at all times.) In any event, he didn’t stay like that for very long, opening his eyes a moment or two later and meeting my undoubtedly puzzled gaze.  
  
“First of all,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything. I don’t even know why you’d think that, but you don’t.” I drew breath to explain, but he held up a hand, quickly saying, “Please, let me finish?” and I settled down again. “Second, I like hugs. I like hugging people, I like being hugged. It’s… nice. And when I’m upset, a hug can be comforting.” He paused for a moment, and when he continued, he sounded a little less sure of himself. “You were… You seemed upset, so I, um, I wanted to make you feel better. That’s why I wanted to hug you. It helps me, so I thought it would help you. But if it doesn’t feel good for you…” His cheeks coloured a little, and he coughed. “Um, if you don’t enjoy- No, wait. I mean…”  
  
“I know what you mean,” I interrupted, feeling an answering heat bloom in my own cheeks. “Just… move on. Please.”  
  
He nodded quickly, relief flaring in his eyes.  
  
“Without that, there’s no point,” he said. “I… I wanted to make you feel better, not worse. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” I said, the acknowledgment coming easily, even if I wasn’t entirely certain why he wanted it. I never thought he wanted to make me feel bad. I just thought… I wasn’t sure what I thought any more. But as I turned his words over and over in my mind, trying to make sense of them, I thought about how I would’ve felt if the situation had been the other way around. If Chris had offered to do something that made his skin crawl, just because he thought I wanted it…  
  
_Oh,_ I thought numbly, distress rearing up inside me like a tidal wave as I imagined what it would be like to know I’d made him feel like… like this.  
  
I thought I understood why he seemed so upset.  
  
“Okay,” he said, again, as I reeled inside. “Good. Now, the third thing I wanted to say is that… no matter what kind of obligation you think you have, you shouldn’t… you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. And… and no one should ask that of you. It would be wrong of them to try.”  
  
“But isn’t that the point of an obligation?” I had to ask. “It’s something you have to do, whether or not you actually want to.”  
  
I might have been uncertain about a great many things in life, but if there was one fucking thing I did understand, it was obligation. Debt. Duty. My father had made damn sure of it.  
  
“Not something like this,” he said, softly.  
  
“It was just a hug,” I said, partly confused as to why he was making such a big deal about it and partly wanting to reassure him that it hadn’t been that bad, really. That he didn’t need to feel so distressed about it. (I tried not to think about how ‘just’ was underselling things, pathetic though that made me.) “It’s not like I was offering to let you fuck me.”  
  
_Hellfire and damnation. I actually said that, didn’t I?_  
  
Chris immediately had another coughing fit. Without a word, I got him another glass of water.  
  
Was it wrong that I felt steadied by his discomfiture? That his loss of composure helped me to claw back some of my own?  
  
“Dammit, Astrid,” he said, after gulping down half the glass of water in one go. “You really have been spending too much time around Dennis.”  
  
“Sorry,” I said, and I was, a little. Not least because, from the way my cheeks were burning, my face must have been about the colour of a fire truck.  
  
“Look, I can’t…” He sighed, and drained the rest of the water, setting the glass down on the table. “The point I was trying to make is that you shouldn’t offer to do something you’re not comfortable with just because you think it’s what someone wants. I- I don’t really know how to explain it any better than that. Just… just trust me okay?”  
  
“I do, I think. At least a little.” I hadn’t been intending to say that, but once the words were out there, I was shocked at how true they felt. Weirdly true. Even though… “But I don’t know why.” I froze, realising how that must have sounded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t trying to insult you. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Chris said, and he actually seemed to mean that, smiling in a way that looked real. “I’m not offended. I, um, I take it as a compliment, actually.”  
  
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.  
  
“Good,” I murmured.  
  
Chris’ smile lasted a beat longer before it faded, his expression sobering again.  
  
“There is one more thing,” he said. “One final thing. I want to… I…” He paused, looked down, looked back. “I’m sorry, Astrid. I never meant… I’m sorry if I made you feel… obligated. I was only trying to help. I really will try to be better about giving you space from now on. And I’m so sorry if… if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable at all during the past couple of weeks. That’s the absolute last thing I’d want.”  
  
He sounded so earnest. And sad. And… guilty? And it just about broke my heart.  
  
“You haven’t made me uncomfortable,” I blurted out. It wasn’t entirely true, but was it was close enough to count, and I would be damned before I’d let him blame himself for my dysfunction. I might have been confused about a lot of things right now, but there was one thing I knew for sure: I didn’t want Chris to feel bad. Especially not because of me. “Really,” I added. Somehow, I managed to pull together a smile I even kind of meant. “Like I said before, I don’t think you could be an asshole if you tried.”  
  
He studied me for a long moment, perhaps trying to figure out if I was telling the truth, but then seemed to relax minutely.  
  
“Good,” he said, sounding relieved, if still a little sad. “That’s good. That I haven’t made you uncomfortable, I mean.” He bit his lip, hesitated a moment, and then added, “You know, you can always tell me to back off. I promise I won’t be offended. And, um, I’ll understand if you want to call off the self-defence lessons.”  
  
“Don’t be silly,” I told him firmly, relieved to be back on something like familiar ground. “That’s training. It doesn’t bother me at all. If you still want me to teach you, I’m more than happy to do so.” I debated with myself for a moment, and then decided to risk smirking and saying, “Anyway, no offence, but you kind of need the help.”  
  
That brought out a laugh. It might have been a startled kind of sound, but it seemed genuine enough, and it did my heart good to hear it.  
  
“You’re not wrong there,” he said, grinning.  
  
It was only when I felt myself relax a little that I realised just how tense I’d been. And, as the physical tension eased from my muscles, my turbulent emotions finally started to settle down, the blazing heat of rage somehow transmuted into a kind of pleasant warmth. Perhaps that was what loosened my tongue enough to speak.  
  
“Chris, can I ask you something?”  
  
“Anything,” he said, and I tried not to flush as I remembered my earlier attempt at humour.  
  
“Why are you so nice to me?” As far as I could tell, he was nice generally, but even so… “I don’t always treat you very well. I’ve snapped at you, yelled at you, and I hit you too hard when we sparred.” I almost brought up the fact that I’d bruised him, but remembered at the last minute that I wasn’t supposed to know about that. “So why do you treat me so… so kindly?”  
  
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” he began, after a couple of false starts. “Y- you are nice to me. It’s not your fault I keep on saying the wrong thing, and-“  
  
“You don’t,” I interrupted, unable to help myself. “You don’t keep saying the wrong thing. I’m just a foul-tempered bitch, that’s all.”  
  
“There you go, being nice again,” he said. “And putting yourself down.” He bit his lip. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that.” I didn’t reply — couldn’t reply — and a moment later, he continued speaking. “I think everyone deserves a little kindness in their lives. The world would be… would be better if more people realised that. So I just… I try to treat people the way I’d want to be treated. That’s all there is to it, really.”  
  
“Oh,” I said.  
  
Could it really be that simple?  
  
But from the way Chris shuffled his feet and coughed, he wasn’t done talking yet, and I waited with trepidation to hear what he had to say.  
  
“And I…” He stopped again, swallowing like he had a lump in his throat and flushing bright pink. “I l- like you, Astrid,” he said, speaking so quickly he almost garbled the words. “And you d- deserve to be treated kindly.”  
  
Warmed by his words, I wished more than anything that I could’ve just accepted them at face value, that I really could be the person he thought I was.  
  
But…  
  
_You wouldn’t say that if you really knew me._  
  
Because I deserved a great many things, but I was pretty fucking sure that kindness wasn’t one of them. And I should probably have told him that, but I… I just didn’t have the heart. So I smiled at him, and despite the messy, turbulent feelings sloshing around inside me, it actually was a genuine smile.  
  
“I like you too,” I said. “And, if…” I paused, took a breath, and then ploughed onwards before I could lose my nerve. “If it’s alright with you, could I maybe take a rain check on that hug?”  
  
Chris’ face lit up like a lightbulb. The brilliance of his smile somehow banished my doubts and made me believe that there might actually come a day when the thought of someone putting their arms around me didn’t make me want to break their bones. That day might not have been this day, but I thought… I really did believe it would happen. More than that, I wanted it to happen.  
  
I kind of, maybe, sort of… wanted that hug.  
  
Someday.  
  
“Of course,” he said. The flush in his cheeks deepened a little. “Like I said, anything you need.”  
  
I briefly thought about gently reminding him that he really needed to start being careful about promising ‘anything,’ but I decided not to risk it.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, instead, the sincerity of my words almost surprising me, telling me that I probably needed a distraction so I could recover my composure. Fortunately, a quick glance at the table provided a solution to my dilemma. “I’m going to wash up that plate and glass,” I told Chris, heading over to the table.  
  
He smiled up at me as I leaned over to grab the items in question, starting to say, “You don’t have to-” before breaking off suddenly to stare at me with what looked like shock. “Astrid,” he said, in a strangled voice. “What happened to your face?”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Oh, Chri-is,” Dennis’ voice trilled unexpectedly from the doorway, making me start. “You’d better not be dismantling the toaster a-” He broke off, and I glanced over in that direction to see him looking at Chris and me with the most peculiar expression, his eyebrows practically mountain-climbing. “Am I interrupting something?”  
  
Blushing bright scarlet, I turned my back on both of them to stand the plate I’d just finished washing in the drying rack, letting Chris field the question.  
  
“No,” he said, sounding as embarrassed as I felt. I wasn’t precisely sure what Dennis thought he might have been ‘interrupting.’ We hadn’t been standing that close, after all. But I guessed Chris’ expression had been kind of… intense, and heartfelt, and earnest as he’d all-but pleaded with me to tell him what had happened. For some reason, he hadn’t seemed to believe me when I said it was nothing to worry about. “Don’t be an asshole, Dennis. Astrid’s hurt.”  
  
“I’m **fine** ,” I said tightly, moving to the table to straighten the chairs Chris had left askew. “Anyway, you should see the other guy.”

"You know we're not supposed to punch out civilians, right?" Dennis drawled, sounding amused. "No matter how annoying they are. The PRT tends to frown on that sort of thing."

"He wasn't a fucking civilian," I snapped, incensed. "Anyway, he hit me first."  
  
The pause was just long enough for me to realise the sheer breadth of my fuck up.  
  
“What?” Chris practically yelped, at the same time that Dennis said,  
  
“Wait — you really were in a fight?”  
  
I sighed, forcing myself to stand my ground and face the pair of them, despite the strong temptation to run for my room.  
  
The fact that I wasn’t sure I was physically capable of running anywhere right now didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.  
  
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I tried half-heartedly, more out of habit than because I actually thought it would convince anyone. I wasn’t even convincing myself, not really. Between the miscellaneous scrapes from my armour, the migraine and the heart to heart with Lance, I was sore as fuck right now. Not to mention sick, and dizzy, and thoroughly fucking miserable. Weak as it might have been, I wanted nothing more than to collapse onto my bed — or even onto the sofa — and just… rest a while.

Dennis gestured vaguely in the direction of my face. “Just tell me you didn’t get those fighting your way out of the infirmary."  
  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I burst out, rolling my eyes. “Not you too! You-“  
  
“Hold that thought,” he interrupted, turning and striding away before I could respond. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
I blinked in the direction of the empty doorway, utterly nonplussed.  
  
“Where the fuck is he going?” I wondered aloud.  
  
“I don’t know,” Chris said, seeming just as puzzled. I was a little relieved that it wasn’t just me. And then I felt a shiver of apprehension as Chris studied me again, his gaze lingering on my stupid face with its stupid swellings and red patches that were turning into stupid bruises despite the stupid freezing water I’d endured in the shower an effort to stop that very stupid thing. “I didn’t think you and Missy actually got involved in any fighting last night,” he said carefully.  
  
“We didn’t,” I said, a weight settling on my chest, squeezing my heart. I’d managed to… not forget, exactly, but not think about last night’s operation. The conversation with Chris, stressful though it had been in places, had been certainly been an excellent distraction from other things. “It was just search and rescue.”  
  
“Then, what happened?” he asked softly, and then immediately added, “If you don’t mind me asking. I mean, I’m not trying to pry, not really. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”  
  
“You don’t need to worry about me.” Even though, strangely, weirdly, it actually felt… nice? Nice. To know that he… cared. Even though his concern was misplaced. “I’ve had far worse than this before, and been perfectly fine.”  
  
But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt a jolt of something like shock as I remembered that I… I hadn’t been fine. I’d had fractures. And I wasn’t nearly as fucked up as I had been when Panacea had healed me, but even so…  
  
_Maybe… Maybe I should have myself checked out? Just in case?_  
  
“…think that’s going to make me worry less, you really don’t know me at all,” Chris was saying when I tuned back in.  
  
I was ashamed to realise I’d completely missed the first part of what he’d said. I looked at him, trying to figure out what to say, but a thought — a stupid thought — suddenly bloomed to life in my mind. It was ridiculous; ludicrous, even. I couldn’t believe I was even thinking such an idiotic thing. And yet…  
  
And yet.  
  
Now I’d thought it, I couldn’t make myself unthink it.  
  
“Chris,” I began, hesitantly, feeling like I was setting sail for uncharted territory. “Can I… Can I ask you a favour?”  
  
A whole kaleidoscope of emotions played out over Chris’ expressive features. Concern, sure. But also… happiness? Apprehension. Hope? Eventually, though, he settled on an earnest, if worried, smile.  
  
“Of course,” he said. “What is it?”  
  
I had to swallow hard before I could answer; had to choke back my apprehension, my self-disgust and, most of all, my pride.  
  
“Would you come with me to the infirmary?” I was going to leave it there, but once I’d started talking, once I’d breached that dam, I just couldn’t stop, the words flooding out of me in a torrent. “I- I mean, it’s probably nothing, and you definitely shouldn’t worry, but the doctor said to go back if there was anything… It’s probably fine, it is, but I just want to make sure I’m not damaged more than I think I am. Because I really want to be able to go to school tomorrow, so I have to be functional for that, so I figured better safe than sorry. And I would just go by myself, but I… I k- keep having dizzy spells, and my eyes still aren’t working right, so I really would appreciate it if you’d just… I mean, I’ll be fine by myself, so you don’t need to feel obligated or anything, but you did say I could ask, so I- I’m asking, and-“  
  
“Astrid,” he broke in, thankfully cutting off my idiotic babble. “Breathe,” he told me, smiling in a way that somehow didn’t feel like he was mocking me. I took his advice, drawing in a slow, deep breath — holding in a wince as several of the sore spots on my ribs flared with pain — and letting it out again. “Of course I’ll go with you,” he assured me, flushing a little for some reason. “I- I did promise you anything, after all, and I like to think that I’m a man of my word.” Great, now I was blushing, too. Even more than I already was, at any rate. “Although,” he added. “I- if you would let me amend that to ‘anything within reason,’ I would be eternally grateful.”  
  
“Of course,” I told him, managing to claw back something like composure. “And… thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said, practically beaming at me. “Shall we go?”  
  
“No time like the present.”  
  
On that note, I forced my recalcitrant body into motion. Chris falling in beside me. It felt kind of… nice… having him at my side. Companionable, maybe. And for the first time in a long time, I actually found myself wondering if maybe, possibly, perhaps…  
  
I mean, it wasn’t like I needed other people; like I was desperate for them to like me, or spend time with me, or whatever. But, even so, even though I didn’t need it, I couldn’t help thinking that…  
  
_It might not be such a bad thing, to make a friend._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has an omake in the form of a deleted scene: [Operation 'Make a Goddamn Sandwich'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8362273/chapters/22712459)


	45. Interlude 3: Emily

“You are, of course, aware that you were technically in violation of your probation,” Director Emily Piggot, PRT ENE, said sternly, glaring at her recalcitrant Ward.  
  
Well, one of her recalcitrant Wards.  
  
For her part, Shadow Stalker proceeded to lounge even more insouciantly in the seat Emily hadn’t given her permission to take.  
  
“Nope,” she said, sounding almost bored.  
  
Emily resisted the urge to grit her teeth.  
  
“You didn’t know you were violating your probation?”  
  
“Nope,” Shadow Stalker drawled again.  
  
It was a lie, of course, and not an especially subtle one.  Did the girl want to go to juvenile detention? If that was the case, there was a part of Emily that was exceedingly tempted to oblige her. But only a small part. The rest of her was focused on the practicalities of the situation.  
  
And, for the moment, the practical thing to do was to at least nominally act as though she believed the girl’s ridiculous claim.  
  
“Well then.” Emily gave a thin, mirthless smile, the expression as glacial as her tone. “Just to make things absolutely clear, going out on solo patrols without clearance is a breach of your probation. Do it again, and you’ll be behind bars so fast it’ll make your head spin. In fact, give me any reason at all to think you’re more of a liability to me than an asset and you are gone. Do you understand me?”  
  
Shadow Stalker tilted her head slightly, looking at Emily for a long moment before nodding slowly.  
  
“I need a verbal acknowledgement, Miss Hess.” If there was a certain small satisfaction in the demand, or in knowing that using the girl’s civilian name would irritate her, then Emily didn’t acknowledge it.  
  
“Yeah,” Shadow Stalker muttered. “I understand.” From the sounds of it, the look on her face was probably a close match for the one on her mask right now.  
  
“Good.” Emily studied her for a few moments, deliberately drawing out the silence. Shadow Stalker shifted position a little, seemingly making herself comfortable, but otherwise didn’t respond. “Of course,” Emily continued thoughtfully. “Given your… experience and abilities, I suppose solo patrols might not completely be out of the question.”  
  
“Yeah?” Shadow Stalker said cautiously, when Emily didn’t continue right away.  
  
“At some point. If you can demonstrate sufficient… responsibility. And restraint.”  
  
The message wasn’t at all subtle, but then neither was Shadow Stalker. From everything Emily had seen of her latest problem child, a heavy-handed approach was the only one that stood any real chance of working. And — despite threatening to deploy the nuclear option — Emily was determined to make this work. She wasn’t foolish enough to throw away an asset without damn good cause and, as aggravating and insubordinate as the girl was, she was a potentially useful thorn in Emily’s side.  
  
Or, she was if she could be brought to heel.  
  
“How do I do that?”  
  
“For a start, no solo patrols until and unless you’re cleared for them.” Emily paused for a moment, as if considering. “In fact, no patrols at all for a week.”  
  
“A week?” She sounded outraged. More than that, she sounded furious. “That’s bu-“  
  
“Careful, Miss Hess,” Emily interrupted, and Shadow Stalker swallowed the rest of the expletive unspoken. Emily hoped it gave her indigestion. It would only be fair. “Think of it as a test,” she continued, even though they both knew it was a punishment. “Pass that, and…”  
  
“And then I can patrol solo?”  
  
“And then you can go back to your regular schedule of authorised, joint patrols,” Emily corrected. Shadow Stalker sat up straight, drawing in a breath as if to speak, but Emily quirked an eyebrow at her and whatever she’d been about to say remained unspoken. “However, if you do find yourself feeling… restless, you may pick up some extra, voluntary patrols. If you like. Within reasonable limits. But not alone.”  
  
It wasn’t as though Wards never went out on extracurricular patrols, even solo ones. Legally speaking, it was something of a grey area; officially discouraged, but not technically forbidden. The Youth Guard didn’t like it, but they tolerated the practice as long as there was no element of coercion involved. And as long as the Wards in question were reasonably sensible about it.  
  
 _After all, no one wants to see what happens when the superpowered children get… restless._  
  
Especially after what had happened with Spin. Or whatever name she was going by after her transfer and rebranding.  
  
“So… what? I’m supposed to ask one of those… One of the others to tag along?” The contempt in Shadow Stalker’s voice showed exactly what she thought of that idea, and of her fellow Wards.  
  
Once more, Emily fought the urge to grit her teeth.  
  
“Precisely,” she said.  
  
“They’ll only slow me down. I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing this longer than any of them. Anyway, what if none of them want to patrol with me?”  
  
“Then you don’t patrol,” Emily said sternly. She waited a beat to let that sink in and then, softening her voice fractionally, continued, “But I’m sure someone will help you out.”  
  
Not that she was planning on leaving it to chance, although she would have to be careful how she approached the other Wards. It wouldn’t do for there to be any appearance of ‘coercion,’ after all. She would also have to take steps to ensure that the inevitable resentment over the extra work was directed towards herself, rather than Shadow Stalker. Team cohesion was already less than stellar, thanks largely to the girl’s own actions. Still, maybe patrolling together outside the watchful presence of the PRT or the Protectorate would actually help in that regard. Bonds of battle, and all that. That was at least part of the reason Emily was doing this, hoping that it might actually foster a little camaraderie between the girl and her erstwhile teammates.  
  
 _God knows they need it…_  
  
“Whatever.” Shadow Stalker relaxed into the chair again, dismissal written in every line and angle of her pose. “So, when can I go out on my own again?”  
  
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Miss Hess,” Emily said forbiddingly. “I want to see if you can actually follow the rules as written first before I even think about relaxing them.”  
  
Shadow Stalker tensed, and for a moment Emily thought she was going to argue, but in the end she just sighed heavily and muttered, “Fine. Are we done? I have f- console duty.” She pronounced the last two words in a tone of utter disgust.  
  
Emily hid the flicker of amusement she felt to regard Shadow Stalker impassively.  
  
“For the moment,” she said. “But-”  
  
Shadow Stalker was already out of her seat and heading for the door. Irritated, Emily started to tell her she hadn’t been dismissed yet, but before she got the words out, the girl dissolved into shadow and phased through the door.  
  
 _Insubordinate child!_  
  
Emily briefly toyed with the idea of summoning her back, but dismissed it right away. Doing so would weaken her authority — especially if Shadow Stalker cited console duty as the reason for her hurry — and make her seem petty. Besides, there were other ways of expressing her displeasure.  
  
 _Which reminds me…_  
  
A phone call and an e-mail later — the first to a certain other troublesome Ward’s parents, and the second to a researcher — a provisional agreement was in place for Clockblocker to spend a few days at Northeast, assisting with a project. It was good to cooperate with reasonable requests from other departments. That kind of thing played very well at budget review time. Plus, the Youth Guard did like to see them making an effort to further the ‘learning about one’s powers in a safe and supportive environment’ aspect of the Wards programme.  
  
The fact that Clockblocker himself would hate it was just the icing on the cake.  
  
But the petty satisfaction soured soon enough, just as it always did, and Emily sighed quietly to herself. All she wanted was for her Wards to do what they were told without arguing about every single little detail. For them to understand that the rules were in place for a reason. For them to have a little discipline, and to respect her authority.  
  
Was that really so much to ask?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Thank you for seeing me, Emily,” Grant said, clacking her way into the office on those ridiculous heels of hers.  
  
 _Like you gave me much choice,_ Emily couldn’t help thinking, even as she made herself smile politely and say, “Of course. Please, take a seat.”  
  
Grant settled herself down in a flurry of skirts, muttering incomprehensibly to herself as she searched through her truly voluminous purse to retrieve a notepad, a sheaf of printouts and a pen. Two pens, actually, the first consigned back to the depths of the bag when it failed to perform its function.  
  
Emily waited patiently for her to finish. She was never quite sure if Grant’s air of perpetual unreadiness was a deliberate ploy, or simply one of her quirks. Either way, she’d learned not to judge her by it.  
  
“Right,” Grant said, eventually, sitting up straight and looking Emily dead in the eyes. “I’m sure you can guess why I’m here.”  
  
“Indeed,” Emily replied. “But why don’t you summarise. Just to make sure we’re on the same page.”  
  
By this point in her life, she knew better than to be drawn into a confession of imagined sins.  
  
“Fine. I’m here to discuss Astrid.” Her eyes flicked down to the notepad on her lap, and then back up again to meet Emily’s gaze once more. “Excuse me, I mean Talos. Specifically, I’d like to talk about the gross negligence involved in sending a traumatised minor out into a life or death situation. Negligence compounded by the fact that she hasn’t even had a proper psychological assessment yet, let alone anything resembling counselling. Not to mention her woefully inadequate level of training.”  
  
Emily refrained from pointing out that Talos had been assessed as part of her evaluation. From past experience, Grant would only make some scathing remark about the scope of those assessments.  
  
“I think ‘gross negligence’ is something of an exaggeration,” she said instead, keeping her tone mild.  
  
The fact that she didn’t entirely disagree with Grant’s assessment was neither here nor there. She had to think of the big picture; the PRT as a whole. Which meant that, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter, she had to defend Lysowski’s decision.  
  
“I’m sure you do.” Grant’s voice was hard; her gaze unflinching. “But, as I see it, a child in a vulnerable emotional state was forced to take on a responsibility she was in no way ready for, and severely injured herself trying to fulfil it. And that’s without even touching on the emotional effects of the experience itself.”  
  
“Talos wasn’t ‘forced’ into anything,” Emily protested, allowing some steel into her own voice. “She was asked, and she agreed. It was made clear that participation was strictly voluntary. No one put any pressure on her.”  
  
She hadn’t had the chance to speak to Lysowski yet, but she knew her subordinate. She had every confidence in her assertion. Nevertheless, Grant gave her a thoroughly disgusted look.  
  
“You have spoken with her, yes? And I’m sure you’ve read her file. Do you honestly believe there’s any chance at all she would refuse a request from someone she perceives as having authority over her? No matter how softly it might have been phrased, and whether or not she was actually willing.”  
  
That gave Emily pause, but she didn’t let even a hint of what was going through her mind colour her tone. She couldn’t afford to.  
  
“I hope you’re not suggesting that the duty officer acted with any impropriety,” she said, severely.  
  
“That’s what I plan on finding out.”  
  
There was an air of finality to the words, and Emily groaned in the privacy of her own mind.  
  
“Oh?” she said, even as she couldn’t help thinking, _Not again._  
  
This was the absolute last thing she needed, especially on top of everything else going on at the moment.  
  
“There’s going to be an investigation,” Grant said, her tone clipped. “You’ll get an official notification, of course, but this is just an informal heads up.” Her lips curved in a tight, mirthless smile. “Think of it as a courtesy.”  
  
Even though it felt rather like standing in front of an oncoming train, Emily rallied herself to try to head this off at the pass.  
  
“The duty officer is permitted to ask Wards to assist with specific operations where their abilities might prove useful,” she pointed out, falling into a familiar, rote cadence. “Where time is of the essence — such as when lives are at stake, as was clearly the case on Saturday — the Ward may be contacted directly, rather than going through their parents or guardians. Should they agree, they must be accompanied by any necessary and appropriate personnel, such as other Wards, Protectorate members, or PRT officers. Additionally, reasonable measures must be taken to assure the Ward’s safety and wellbeing at all times.” She paused for a beat, lifting her eyebrows slightly. “As far as I’m aware, procedure was followed to the letter. It is…” Worrying, damned annoying. Perhaps, in hindsight, not entirely unexpected. “Regrettable that Talos chose to push herself to the extent she did, and that she didn’t inform her minders she was having difficulties until the damage was already done. However, that was by no means expected of her, and it is a matter perhaps best taken up with the young lady herself.”  
  
Grant, to her credit, didn’t even try to interrupt Emily this time, merely looking on inscrutably as she spoke. At that last part, though, her expression twisted into a grimace.  
  
“Oh, one of your soldiers has already done **that**.” The sharp-edged words practically dripped with  disapproval.  
  
Emily blinked.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Grant smiled thinly, her eyes like ice chips.  
  
“You didn’t know? Well then, let me enlighten you. After Astrid was discharged from the infirmary on Sunday, the leader of Aleph squad saw fit to have a word with her.”  
  
 _Dammit, Hamish!_  
  
This wasn’t the first time that particular thought had crossed Emily’s mind, and she doubted it would be the last.  
  
“I see,” she said, mainly to give herself a moment to think. “Well, I’m sure he just wanted to make sure she was alright after-“  
  
“The impression I got is that he practically read her the riot act,” Grant interrupted. She sighed. “Not that Astrid actually said so in as many words, of course. Honestly, getting even that much out of her was like getting blood out of a stone. But I can read between the lines, and he clearly made quite an impression on her.” Before Emily could think of a response to that, Grant narrowed her eyes, her gaze like twin lasers boring into Emily’s skull. “So, to summarise, we have an injured, traumatised child who’s understandably shaken by the events she’s just experienced, and MacArdle decided that was the perfect time to tell her off.”  
  
“I’m sure Officer MacArdle meant well,” Emily tried, making a mental note to tear Hamish a new one for not giving her a heads up about his chat with Talos. He knew how she hated being blindsided.  
  
“Whatever his intentions may have been, he went against protocol. If he had concerns, he should have raised them with the duty officer, the deputy director, or yourself. At a pinch, he could have spoken with the Wards team leader. What he emphatically should not have done was approach Astrid herself. Especially without the presence of an advocate.”  
  
Emily had seen Grant angry before. Whatever you could say about the woman — and Emily had certainly said a great deal, if mostly in the privacy of her own mind — she was undeniably passionate about her work. As inconvenient as that passion could be at times, Emily could at least respect the intentions behind it. But she seemed especially worked up right now, tapping her pen against her notebook with short, staccato motions.  
  
Idly, Emily wondered if her current heightened emotional state was because she felt a particular connection with the girl, or if it had more to do with the recent death of one of her former colleagues. In any event, whatever the driving force behind her anger, she was unlikely to let this matter go anytime soon.  
  
“I’ll have a word with Officer MacArdle,” Emily offered. “And I’ll remind him of the regulations governing interactions with Wards.”  
  
“That’s a start,” Grant murmured. She scribbled something in her notebook, underlining it with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. “You realise, of course, that Astrid is expecting to be punished for failing to keep the building upright. And herself, for that matter.”  
  
“What?” Emily barked, the question startled out of her. “That’s ridiculous. I can assure you that none of my people would have said, or even implied, anything of the sort.”  
  
“As I’m sure you can understand, Astrid has somewhat extreme ideas about what constitutes failure. And about what would be considered appropriate disciplinary measures for any so-called failures on her part.”  
  
Once again, Emily found herself given pause.  
  
“I… see,” she said, lacking anything more constructive to contribute.  
  
That aspect of the situation hadn’t even occurred to her. Not that she wasn’t used to thinking of capes as… damaged. Broken, even. But Astrid’s particular kind of trauma was not something with which she had a great deal of experience. Hers was the first case of serious familial abuse that Emily had encountered since she'd become head of the Brockton Bay Wards. Sadly, statistics promised that it would be far from the last. She made a mental note to read up on the subject, so she could do better next time.  
  
“I hope so,” Grant said, and now she just seemed tired. “Because you have a duty of care to that girl. In some respects more so than the other Wards, given her legal status. And, right now, I’m sorry to say that you are failing her.”  
  
The words stung a little. Emily still thought Grant was overstating the case somewhat, but she had to acknowledge that she had a point.  
  
 _I never signed up to be a surrogate parent, dammit._  
  
Not that she actually was or was likely to become Talos’ official guardian, thank God, but still. The situation certainly was… complicated.  
  
“I’ll speak with her,” she said abruptly. “At the very least, I can reassure her that the operation went as well as could be expected.” She considered for a moment. “Or, perhaps Renick would be better.”  
  
He was certainly more well-liked by the Wards in general. Probably at least in part because Emily was the one who tended to handle disciplinary matters. He was the carrot and she was the stick, and she was perfectly fine with that. Preferred it, honestly.  
  
Grant frowned, but the expression looked thoughtful, rather than angry.  
  
“I think she’d respond better if it came from you, actually,” she said, after a moment. She snorted abruptly, the sound seeming loud in its suddenness. “And, while you’re at it, maybe you can get her to tell you who beat her black and blue.”  
  
Emily stared at Grant.  
  
“Someone… beat her?” she asked. “When?”  
  
“Well, she called it a fight,” Grant said, and then, unexpectedly, her lips twitched in a brief, wry grin. “Actually the phrase she used was ‘a full and frank exchange of views,’ but it amounted to the same thing. I strongly doubt it was as even as she tried to imply, however, especially considering the state she was in to begin with. And it happened when she went out for a walk sometime on Sunday. Apparently she needed some fresh air. For some reason.” A brief pause, a sharp look, and then she continued, “The only thing she would tell me was that it was someone she knew, and that it wasn’t one of her fellow Wards.” She shrugged. “Perhaps she’ll be more forthcoming with you. After all, I’m not in her chain of command.”  
  
Those last words could have cut glass. Emily judged it best to simply take them at face value, and ignore the tone in which they were spoken.  
  
“I’ll look into it,” she promised.  
  
“Gently, though,” Grant cautioned, although the warning seemed more than a little hypocritical considering she was actively encouraging Emily to use the girl’s… biases… against her.  
  
In any event, while the news about Talos’ ‘full and frank exchange of views’ with someone was concerning, it was tangential to the matter at hand. It seemed Emily was probably going to have to accept the inevitability of a Youth Guard investigation. But there were steps she could take to attempt to sway it in their favour. Or, at least, to mitigate the consequences of a negative outcome.  
  
This was, after all, a negotiation.  
  
“Alright,” she said, briskly. “On a related matter, I trust you’re aware that Talos’ psychological assessment has been scheduled for this week?”  
  
Grant nodded. “Not before time.”  
  
“I agree,” Emily said, amused by the considering look that earned her. “Unfortunately, as I’m sure you’re also aware, scheduling difficulties and delays aren’t especially unusual when it comes to arranging appointments with the counselling team.”  
  
“I’m aware.” The thoughtful look now had just a hint of suspicion.  
  
“It’s something I’ve wanted to address for some time, but it’s a tricky problem, with no clear solution. The counselling service is heavily oversubscribed, and the policy of rotating therapists only compounds the issue.”  
  
That was… not strictly true. Oh, it was absolutely accurate to say that the therapists were stretched thin, that certain policy decisions served to magnify the effects of the short-staffing. But as far as Emily wanting to fix things went… Not so much. If anything, there was a part of her that railed against the idea. She’d seen counsellors in her time — had more than had her fill after Ellisburg — and not a single, yammering one of them had ever done her the slightest bit of good. Their mealy-mouthed platitudes, their false claims of understanding; of being able to help… All they’d done was make her angry. She knew, intellectually, that some people found it helpful to be able to talk their issues to death, but to her it honestly just felt like… wallowing. The worst kind of self-indulgence.  
  
Then again, when it came to dealing with her problems, she’d always been more of a doer than a talker.  
  
However, the powers that be had deemed it necessary for the capes — especially the Wards — to have regular counselling sessions. It was something about which Grant, plus the Youth Guard in general, had a whole swarm of bees in their collective bonnets. So Emily kept her opinions about counselling to herself and ensured that her department followed the very letter of the law in that regard.  
  
Even if she did sometimes have to silently grit her teeth about the wasting of her people’s time.  
  
“What are you suggesting?” Grant asked, sounding cautiously interested.  
  
Emily might not have seen the point of making the Wards bare their souls to counsellors, but the fact that the Youth Guard held the idea in such regard meant that taking visible steps to facilitate it was an excellent way to earn their favour.  
  
Now that she was staring down the barrel of an official investigation, she needed to buy all the good will she could get her hands on.  
  
 _Who knows,_ she thought, as she explained her proposal — her concession — to Grant. _Maybe the Wards might actually get some benefit out of this…_  
  
After all, stranger things had happened.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Director, Lieutenant Lysowski is here to see you,” came the brisk voice of Emily’s personal assistant over the office intercom.  
  
“Thank you, Sarah,” she said. “Give me fifteen minutes or so, and then send her in.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
Quarter of an hour sitting on one of those chairs should certainly send a message. Not that Emily had ever sat on one of them herself, but she’d heard enough complaints about them over the years — from seasoned officers, in fact, not just office staff — to make her suspect that there could actually be something to it under all the exaggeration and hyperbole. Honestly, to hear some of them talk, you’d think they’d been designed by some kind of furniture tinker with a particular talent for things that caused discomfort.  
  
She still wasn’t certain that Cavendish was entirely joking when he’d wondered aloud whether the PRT ENE had done something to earn Accord’s particular enmity.  
  
It was almost a shame that the likeliest explanation was so mundane. To win a government contract, the most important criterion was to be the lowest bidder, and those savings had to come from somewhere. And what price individual comfort when you could simply buy in bulk?  
  
Putting aside that thought, and other distractions, Emily used the time to finish off her current pile of paperwork. Alas, this stack — formidable though it was — was but one brick in an ever-growing wall of the stuff. But she could at least take some satisfaction in the fact that she’d made a dent, no matter how small.  
  
At fifteen minutes on the dot, there was a sharp rap at her door.  
  
“Come in,” she called out.  
  
Lysowski strode into her office and came to attention before her desk.  
  
“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?” she said crisply.  
  
“Yes.” Emily’s tone was mild, but Lysowski twitched nonetheless, and Emily couldn’t entirely suppress a vindictive little spike of schadenfreude at the fact that she wasn’t the only one suffering.  
  
(‘You need to reduce your blood pressure,’ her doctor had told her. ‘Perhaps you could try avoiding sources of stress.’ She’d only just refrained from asking him if he wanted her to figure out how to regrow her kidneys by willpower alone while she was at it. Since they were talking pie in the sky fantasies and all.)  
  
To Lysowki’s credit, she didn’t fidget, or shift in place, or give any sign of discomfort other than that initial twitch. She remained in position, eyes front, expression composed.  
  
“Take a seat,” Emily said, after letting her sweat for a moment.  
  
“Thank you,” she murmured, perching on the edge of the indicated chair.  
  
They regarded each other.  
  
“Do you know why you’re here?” Emily asked.  
  
“I… can guess.”  
  
Emily raised her eyebrows quizzically. “Oh?”  
  
“I’m assuming it’s because of the call I made to deploy the new Ward on a search and rescue operation. I understand that it was something of a… controversial decision.”  
  
 Lysowski, it seemed, had not yet learned the lesson about not letting oneself be drawn into a confession. Emily had a feeling that was about to change.  
  
“Do you?” she asked, more than happy to take the opening she was offered. “And why is that?”  
  
“Because that was her first time out in the field.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And… she hasn’t finished her training yet.” Lysowski paused briefly, and then added, “Plus, her name and costume hadn’t quite been finalised.” She sounded reluctant, as well she might.  
  
While there was a part of Emily that was curious to see how many more such admissions would be offered up if she kept repeating the word ‘and’ in an expectant tone, there was no particular point in drawing this out. Emily had summoned Lysowski here to get answers, and to explain her errors so she could do better in the future. She had no interest in humiliating the woman.  
  
“Were you aware that the Youth Guard will be conducting an investigation into the incident?” she asked.  
  
Lysowski’s lip curled in an expression of distaste, but her tone was more or less neutral as she said, “No, Ma’am, I was not.”  
  
“You don’t think an investigation is justified?” Emily asked mildly.  
  
Lysowski opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and then said, “Permission to speak freely, Ma’am?”  
  
Smiling would have sent entirely the wrong message, as would grimacing, so Emily kept both her amusement  and her irritation on the inside and nodded gravely.  
  
“Always,” she said.  
  
Maybe this would be the occasion that the message would finally sink in, and Lysowski would realise that Emily didn’t just permit her people to speak freely, she actively preferred it when they did. Less chance of being blindsided that way. Less chance of a clusterfuck that could’ve been avoided if only people would’ve spoken up when they still had the chance to head it off at the pass.  
  
Not that she was bitter or anything.  
  
But she understood Lysowski’s hesitation, and her tendency to fall back into old habits of formality when she felt ill at ease or out of her depth. Her rank and position were, after all, so new they practically still squeaked. And then there was the other reason.  
  
Ellisburg.  
  
Sometimes, on bad days, Emily wanted to shake Lysowski until that awed shine left her eyes; to tell her that merely surviving hell itself wasn’t worthy of any kind of admiration, let alone the hero worship that seemed to taint their every interaction.  
  
 _I’m just too stubborn to die, that’s all,_ she grumbled silently to herself.  
  
She wasn’t sure how Lysowski had even found out she was at Ellisburg. It certainly wasn’t something she made a habit of announcing. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a secret either. Clearly, someone had been telling tales out of school.  
  
In any case, Lysowski was young. She’d grow out of it. One way or another, they always did. God knew Emily herself had with the people she’d once venerated.  
  
And maybe, if Emily told her enough times she wanted her to speak her damned mind, she’d actually believe it.  
  
“Okay.” That single word, quietly determined, drew Emily out of her thoughts. She watched Lysowski as the other woman took a breath, somehow managed to draw herself up in her seat even more, despite her already ruler-straight spine, and said, “With all due respect, the Youth Guard are a bunch of reactionary… civilians. They don’t understand the first thing about parahumans or about the PRT. It seems like they do everything in their power to stop the Wards using their talents to their fullest potential. All those pointless regulations and restrictions. It’s ridiculous!” She shook her head, her voice growing more and more passionate — more and more frustrated — as she warmed to her subject. “It’s not like anyone wants to put minors in harm’s way! We don’t send them out there for the hell of it. We do it because they make a difference. They save lives. It’s what they signed up for, isn’t it? To be heroes? So we’d be doing them a disservice if we just wrapped them in cotton wool and tried to keep them safe.” Her face creased into an expression of disgust. “The Youth Guard might claim they want to ‘protect the children,’ but they certainly don’t seem to respect them very much.”  
  
She broke off there, breathing a little heavily, and Emily only just refrained from raising her eyebrows.  
  
 _I guess she did manage to bring herself to speak freely after all._  
  
“So, you think the Youth Guard’s concern is… misplaced?” Emily asked in a mild, neutral tone.  
  
Lysowski nodded.  
  
“Honestly, I think they’re just looking for an excuse to get outraged. It’s what they do — pander to the  squeamishness of the masses in an attempt to make themselves seem relevant. It’s politics, that’s all. Politics and PR.” She shrugged, briefly seeming a little uncomfortable before rallying to say, “It isn’t like I sent Talos into a firefight. She was guided and protected at all times by trained professionals, and the intent was for her to use her power in what should have been a safe manner. And the record shows that I was right. She saved lives, both civilians and the emergency responders. I deeply regret that she injured herself, of course, but on balance…” She paused; took a breath. “I stand by my decision, Ma’am. And I am prepared to defend it to the Youth Guard if necessary.”  
  
 _Well, that’s unfortunate._  
  
“You’ll have to,” Emily informed her. “And if you tell them what you just told me, in the same way, then I think it’s fairly safe to say that things will not go well for you. Or for the PRT as a whole.”  
  
The look Lysowski gave her then was cautious; disbelieving. And maybe a little bit… disappointed?  
  
“You’re not suggesting… Are you asking me to lie?”  
  
“Lieutenant Lysowski!” Emily barked. “I told you to speak freely, not to speak idiotically. Of course I’m not telling you to lie. That would be a federal crime. Last I checked, we are both agents of the law.”  
  
She was almost surprised to realise that she was genuinely offended.  
  
“I apologise, Ma’am,” Lysowski said hurriedly, her expression horrified and her whole body as tense as piano wire. “I spoke without thinking. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”  
  
“Then I strongly suggest you consider your words more carefully in the future.”  
  
“I’ll do that.” Her head nodded so rapidly that it reminded Emily of one of those ridiculous bobble headed dolls that were all the rage a few years back.  
  
(There were probably still a few of those left in the PRT and Protectorate gift shops, she mused. She should check before she next went up to visit her sister’s family. Perhaps her nephew and niece might find them amusing, if only in an ironic way. That was a thing with kids now, wasn’t it? Liking things ironically?)  
  
“Good,” Emily said, satisfied. She considered for a few moments, deciding on the best avenue of attack. “You’re right,” she said, in an even tone. “Your decision did save lives. And that’s definitely a good thing.”  
  
“Thank y-“  
  
“So, your gamble paid off. This time.”  
  
Lysowski froze.  
  
“It wasn’t a-”  
  
“Wasn’t a gamble?” Emily finished for her. “You’re wrong. Dead wrong.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice just a little, falling into a regular cadence. “Talos has not completed her training. She hasn’t been cleared for field work. You threw her into a highly stressful situation with nothing but her own strength of will to stop her succumbing to panic. Frankly, it’s nothing short of miraculous that the only person she hurt was herself. There’s a reason we don’t send soldiers into the field when they’ve only just started basic. That goes double for parahumans, and double again for Wards.”  
  
“I understand that, Ma’am,” Lysowski said. “And I know the situation wasn’t ideal. But I didn’t have any other options. It’s like…” She leaned forward a little in her seat, her expression earnest. “Say you’re in the field and you need a pilot, or an engineer, or some other specialist. If the only guy with the skills you need is a rookie, you don’t say, ‘I guess we’ll just have to pack up and go home.’ You deploy the rookie and you do your best to keep them out of harm’s way.”  
  
“Talos ended up in the infirmary,” Emily pointed out flatly.  
  
Lysowski blinked, something uncertain flickering in her eyes.  
  
“Well, obviously that was unfortunate,” she said. “But I didn’t know that she was going to-“  
  
“Precisely,” Emily said. “You. Didn’t. Know. Because she was untested. Because she wasn’t prepared for that situation. Because you put an untrained teenager in harm’s way.”  
  
“Not untrained,” Lysowski protested.  
  
“Oh, excuse me,” Emily said, with biting sarcasm. “I meant mostly untrained.” She shook her head, allowing disappointment into her expression. “Search and rescue can be hard on adult emergency responders with years of experience. What on earth made you think a green sixteen year old would be able to take it in her stride?”  
  
“She had support,” Lysowski said, the firmness of her voice showing that she had the courage of her convictions. Emily admired that, but she needed that conviction to be tempered by experience. “She wasn’t on her own out there. Plus, Vista was fine, and she’s only twelve.”  
  
“And, do you know what the difference is between Vista and Talos?” Emily asked. “Vista has finished her training. More than that, she has significant field experience, especially in search and rescue operations. There is a reason why the Youth Guard isn’t investigating your decision to deploy **her**.”  
  
A small, nagging voice at the back of her mind that muttered that there was something wrong with a world where she could present the idea of a twelve year old having ‘significant field experience’ as a good thing. She ignored that voice as being irrelevant to the matter at hand.  
  
“Talos wasn’t my first choice,” Lysowski muttered. “I wanted to send Clockblocker, but apparently he’d already exceeded his allotted hours for the week.” In a stronger tone, she added, “You’d think they’d make an exception for emergencies.”  
  
“There are always going to be emergencies,” Emily said, paraphrasing the response Grant had given her when she’d raised that very point, once upon a time. “And there has to be a clear boundary, or ‘just this once’ can become ‘all the time.’ And that road leads to burnout or breakdowns.” Lysowki frowned, and she started to say something — a protest, undoubtedly — but Emily forestalled her with, “Feel free to raise the subject with Ms Grant, but regardless of your feelings on the matter, I expect you to follow the PRT and Youth Guard guidelines.”  
  
Not that Emily didn’t understand her frustration — not that she didn’t feel exactly the same way when the rules got in the way of effectiveness — but, at the same time, she could see Grant’s point. The Wards may have been useful assets, but they were also children. Like it or not, that made a difference.  
  
“Of course, Ma’am,” she answered obediently, if a little stiffly.  
  
“In any case,” Emily said, “you didn’t just put Talos at risk, you also endangered everyone around her.” Pausing for a beat, for emphasis, she asked, “What if she’d panicked and lashed out with her power?”  
  
“The… note in her file said that that was only a moderate risk,” Lysowski said cautiously.  
  
Emily pursed her lips, regretting the loss of nuance that was an unavoidable consequence of condensing a detailed and thorough report of a cape evaluation into a scant few lines of advice for duty officers who might have to deploy that cape in the field.  
  
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “But stress increases that risk. And I think we can agree that Talos was undoubtedly under a great deal of stress, yes?”  
  
“Yes,” Lysowski said, after a moment. Emily waited to see if she had anything else to say, but that seemed to be it. Hopefully, the fact that she wasn’t arguing any more meant that she was actually starting to understand at long last.  
  
“Take a look at this.” Emily turned her monitor around so Lysowski could see it, hitting a key to start the playback. She watched Lysowski, rather than the screen, having already seen the selected footage from Talos’ evaluation. She’d seen this part multiple times, in fact, and could picture exactly what Lysowski was seeing when a surprisingly understated ‘whoomph’ noise emerged from the speakers: a solid building reduced to a cloud of fine dust with nothing more than a thought. She stopped the recording a moment later.  
  
“Jesus,” Lysowski murmured.  
  
“Quite,” Emily said dryly. “Now, I’ll ask you again: what if Talos had panicked and lashed out with her power?”  
  
Lysowski swallowed.  
  
“It… could have been bad, Ma’am.”  
  
“Damn straight.” Emily considered Lysowski for a moment and decided that she’d made her point. And she hadn’t even had to resort to showing the second recording; the one in which Talos turned an unassuming patch of concrete into a fireball. “Like I said before, you took a gamble. This time, it paid off. Next time, it might not. Do you understand that?”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” Lysowski said after a moment. She took a breath, and squared her shoulders again from where she’d shrunk back a little in her seat. “I see now that I didn’t fully consider the consequences of something going awry.”  
  
 _Hallelujah._  
  
That was half of it. And perhaps, now she’d had some of her certainty shaken a little, Lysowski was actually ready to listen to the rest.   
  
Allowing a quiet sigh to escape her lips, Emily let her posture soften a little; blunted the sharp edges of her tone.  
  
“I know it can be tempting to think of our capes in terms of what they can do; how their power can best be used. But you have to remember that, underneath their abilities, they’re also people.” Broken people, damaged people, but people nonetheless. “And the Wards are **children**. You may think the Youth Guard overzealous, but they do have a point about that.” The taste of those words was only a little bitter; only a little like ashes in her mouth. “And, no matter how powerful they might be, you cannot treat a child as you would an adult.”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am,” Lysowski said. She seemed subdued, but rallied a little to say, “But if the Youth Guard had their way, we’d never deploy the Wards at all. In which case, what’s the point of even having a Wards team?”  
  
“Regardless of what certain elements within the Youth Guard may or may not want,” Emily said, “no one’s actually trying to stop us sending Wards into the field. All they ask — all **I** ask — is that you stop and think before making that choice.”  
  
“Do you…” A brief hesitation, and then Lysowski plowed on with her question. “Do you think their concerns have merit?”  
  
Emily considered for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Officially, the rules governing Wards deployment were followed to the letter. There was no impropriety involved on your part, nor the troopers who accompanied Talos and Vista into the field. What happened to Talos was deeply unfortunate, but not something you could have foreseen and both you and I will take steps to prevent such an incident from happening again.”  
  
“And unofficially?” Lysowski asked softly. She looked like she was steeling herself for the worst.  
  
“You fucked up,” Emily said, bluntly. “I understand why you made that call, but it was the wrong one.” _Well. Wrong in some ways; right in others. But this isn’t the time or the place for nuance._ She paused, tilting her head quizzically. “You did check up on her afterwards, yes?”  
  
“Of course.” Lysowski sounded offended. “I spoke to one of the doctors who treated her when she was brought in. And I had the infirmary update me on her condition when she was discharged.”  
  
“Well, then. You know what she did to herself. You know she could have died. Does that seem to you like someone who was coping well with the pressure?”  
  
From the conflicted look on her face, Emily was genuinely unsure how Lysowski was going to answer, but eventually the other woman sighed and said, “No.” She sounded resigned.  
  
“And that kind of experience — knowing that people died despite your efforts to save them — it stays with you. But then, I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”  
  
Lysowski flinched. “No, Ma’am.”  
  
“So, we’re talking a potential long-term impact both on a personal level, and on her effectiveness in the field.”  
  
 _God knows parahumans can be unstable enough at the best of times. They certainly don’t need any help in that regard._  
  
“But, isn’t she going to have to deal with that kind of thing anyway, sooner or later?” Lysowski’s expression was troubled. “I mean, this situation wasn’t ideal, certainly, but it isn’t like Wards never see action of some sort or other. I know it’s rare for them to be deployed on an active operation, but it does happen. And then there’s the extracurricular stuff. Vista’s always volunteering for search and rescue, Clockblocker does ride-alongs with paramedics, and pretty much all of them pick up extra patrols, some of them even engaging in combat, rather than just ‘showing the flag.’ So…” She paused, took a breath. “I’m not… trying to be cold, Ma’am, but isn’t it something she’s going to have to get used to?”  
  
 _This would be easier,_ Emily couldn’t help thinking, _if Lysowski didn’t have a point._  
  
The simple fact of the matter was that, chances were, this wasn’t the last time Talos would be put in the position of having lives depend on her actions. And, in some respects, the quicker she grew acclimatised to emotional demands of being a hero in Brockton Bay, the better.  
  
 _But she’s so young. They’re all so young._  
  
But, as Grant would say, the PRT had a duty of care to uphold.  
  
Plus, there was the practical concern of not wanting the Youth Guard to fine them into oblivion.  
  
“Perhaps,” Emily said, after taking a moment to get her thoughts back on track. “But with the proper training, guidance and support every step of the way. **Not** by simply being thrown in the deep end to sink or swim on her own.” Emily shook her head. “Come on, Lysowski. You’re a soldier. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. You wouldn’t just hand a raw recruit a gun, point them at the enemy and expect them to kill without hesitation. Or to not suffer any emotional fallout from the experience. Why is this different?”  
  
It looked like a lightbulb went off behind Lysowski’s eyes.  
  
“I… wasn’t thinking of the situation in those terms,” she admitted. “I just saw a problem, and a solution.”  
  
Emily shook her head.  
  
“You need to be better than this. You’re an excellent tactical commander, but your strategic thinking leaves a lot to be desired. As a lieutenant, and a duty officer, you have to consider the big picture.” She narrowed her eyes. “Such as whether your actions will lead to the Youth Guard levying substantial fines from the PRT ENE and Ward deployment being restricted even more severely.”  
  
“Are they likely to do that?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Emily sighed heavily. “I’m taking steps to try and mitigate the damage, but…” She shrugged. “It could honestly go either way.”  
  
Lysowski was quiet for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and then she lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders.  
  
“For what it’s worth, Ma’am, although at the time I felt like I made the best decision I could based on the available information, after careful consideration, I believe I would choose differently in the future.”  
  
 _Okay, I can work with that._  
  
“Very well,” she said, briskly. “Let’s move on…”  
  
With Lysowski finally on the right page, there was a chance this might not end in disaster after all.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“So, write me up,” Hamish said brusquely, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.  
  
“I’ll do worse than that, if you’re not careful,” Emily muttered darkly, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll promote you.”  
  
That knocked some of the belligerence out of him, she was pleased to note. She met his gaze guilelessly as he eyed her askance.  
  
“You wouldn’t,” he said, albeit without his previous bluster. “I’d be all but useless to you behind a desk.” He snorted. “Anyway, I’d bet horseshoes to hand grenades you’d have to bust me back down again inside of a week.”  
  
Emily rolled her eyes.  
  
“That isn’t something to be proud of,” she told him waspishly. Shaking her head, she added, “Although I’m not sure any of the department heads have pissed me off enough to deserve you being inflicted on them, so you’re probably safe for the time being.”  
  
“Damn good thing, too,” he muttered, with a nod that was entirely too self-satisfied for her liking. “I’ve always worked for a living. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself as an officer.”  
  
“Yes, well.” She took a breath, making a valiant effort to claw back the reins of the conversation. “To return to the point, you know you’re not supposed to reprimand the Wards personally. How many times are we going to have this conversation?”  
  
“As many times as they keep committing acts of balls-out stupidity,” he replied promptly.  
  
Amused despite herself, Emily kept her expression severe.  
  
“There is a protocol, Hamish.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you can’t expect me not to call out fuckwittery whenever I see it.” He sounded impatient. “In my experience, the quicker you get that shit dealt with, the less likely they are to do it again.” His lips curved in a thin smile beneath his greying moustache. “And I can guarantee a dressing down from me is more likely to make an impression than a friendly chat with Renick.”  
  
Emily sighed quietly to herself at the distaste edging Hamish’s voice when he spoke Ian’s name. The two of them had never got on.  
  
 _Not the issue at hand,_ she told herself.  
  
“I would’ve appreciated a heads up,” she said, electing not to pursue this particular battle for the moment.  
  
“That, I will apologise for,” he said easily. “I was going to drop you a line, but it slipped my mind. Next time, though.”  
  
“I’m hoping there won’t be a next time,” she observed dryly.  
  
“And I’m hoping Kaiser accidentally sits on one of his own spikes,” Hamish shot back, grinning slyly. “It’s good to have hopes.”  
  
“You’re a disgrace,” Emily told him, fighting a losing battle against her amusement.  
  
“Made you smile, though,” Hamish said, looking entirely far too pleased with himself. “You should do that more often.”  
  
“Not a lot to smile about these days,” Emily murmured, shaking her head.  
  
Silence settled over them for a few moments. A comfortable silence, if perhaps a melancholy one. Hamish was the one to break it.  
  
“Did she complain about me, then? Talos?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Emily said slowly. “I gather Ms Grant asked her about the operation, and it came up in passing. But she doesn’t strike me as the complaining type.”  
  
“She should’ve done a bit more of that on Saturday,” Hamish muttered. “Like, say, when she started going blind.” He shook his head, scowling. “Damn teenagers. If you ask me, the lot of them should have to go through real training before we even think about putting them in the field. Not the half-assed nonsense they get given.”  
  
“And they should wear PRT uniforms, and respect the chain of command, and basically be proper soldiers, rather than costumed crusaders,” Emily quoted, having heard his feelings on the subject before, too many times to count. She shook her head. “They’re kids, Hamish.”  
  
“They are now,” he said, shrugging. “And isn’t that a damn good reason why they shouldn’t be on active duty yet? But give them a few years, and most of them will be in the Protectorate. And they’d be a damn sight more effective — not to mention much more disciplined — with the benefit of proper training.”  
  
Emily thought about responding; about bringing up the importance of public perception, the nature of parahumans themselves, and the countless other reasons why that kind of militaristic paradigm had been rejected for the Protectorate as a whole. (And wasn’t that strange? That she wouldn’t just raise those points, but that she’d actually agree with many of them? She really had come a long way since Ellisburg.) Ultimately, though, she decided against it. Neither of them was going to convince the other, and she didn’t have the patience for the merry-go-round of that never-ending argument.  
  
Anyway, there was something else she wanted to talk about.  
  
“Just out of curiosity, what’s your impression of Talos, overall?”  
  
She’d read his report, of course, but that wasn’t the same as getting it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.  
  
“The kid knows how to follow orders, at least,” he said. “That’s something, I suppose. And she must have some crazy kind of stubbornness to keep going in the shape she was in.”  
  
“You almost sound like you admire that,” Emily said, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
Hamish shrugged. “I can respect something while still thinking it’s the height of fuckwittery. I’m complicated like that.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t have the self preservation instinct the good lord gave a squirrel, though, and if she doesn’t develop one, she’s going to get herself killed. Probably take other people down with her, too.” His gaze turned distant; brooding. “Seen it before.”  
  
The silence pooled around them like tar, thick and deep.  
  
In her mind’s eye, Emily saw one of the black and white photographs from the frame on Grant’s office wall; a smaller copy of the one that hung in the foyer of PRT Department Twenty-One.  
  
Fizz. Chrissie Mason. Seventeen years old.  
  
 _What a damn tragedy._  
  
There was no sense in saying something that they both already knew, though, so she hauled herself painfully to her feet and wordlessly clapped him on the shoulder on her way to retrieving a bottle of water from the mini fridge.  
  
“Want one?” she asked.  
  
“I’d rather have a real drink,” he said, amusement sparking in his eyes as he added, slyly, “Like the Bruichladdich I’m saving for a special occasion.”  
  
“Bastard,” she muttered sourly, unable to help giving her water a resentful glower as she sat back down.  
  
Hamish laughed, because of course he did.  
  
“Get your kidneys fixed up, and I’ll pour you a glass myself. Hell, I’ll get you a bottle of your own. My treat.”  
  
 _Not this again…_  
  
“I’ve told you before, Hamish,” she said irritably. “I am not going to put the PRT in hock to New Wave just to benefit myself. My condition is stable, my treatment is working fine, and I’m more than fit enough to sit on my ass behind a desk all day. If I’m going to negotiate with Carol Dallon for Panacea’s services, it’s going to be on behalf of one the troops, or one of the capes. End of discussion.”  
  
Maybe if they actually had something like a standing contract with New Wave, she could have… But no.  
  
‘We’ll deal with it on a case by case basis,’ Dallon had said, back when they’d tentatively broached the possibility of having Panacea on retainer. ‘I’m not comfortable committing her time like that. She has other priorities.’  
  
Negotiating for medical assistance for an injured soldier was one thing. Doing so for her own benefit, though, would mean putting herself in New Wave’s debt. That was not an acceptable position for a PRT director to be in. And even if they did have Panacea on retainer, that wouldn’t be much better. It would be using company resources for personal gain. Anyway, she’d long since learned to live with her injuries. (They were badge of honour. A reminder. A memorial.) She didn’t need healing. Best to save that for people who were actually in danger of dying.  
  
Like Shaw and Fisher from Bet squad, if there’d actually been a hope in hell that Panacea could have gotten to them in time.  
  
“Stubborn as always, Emily,” Hamish sighed, but he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender when she narrowed her eyes at him. “Dropping the subject right now, Ma’am. Pretend I never said anything.”  
  
“I frequently do,” she said dryly.  
  
He grinned at her briefly, but then his expression sobered.  
  
“I was doing Talos a favour,” he said quietly, returning to their previous topic of conversation. “I know it was against protocol, but better she get yelled at a little than get killed in the line of duty.”  
  
 _I really want that drink,_ Emily thought glumly. Not that he didn’t have a point, but…  
  
In some ways, the fact that he had a point was one of the reasons why she wanted that drink.  
  
“Well,” she said firmly. “I haven’t lost a Ward yet, and I don’t intend to start now.”  
  
“Maybe you should just order her to take better care of herself,” Hamish said, and he almost certainly meant that as a joke, but…  
  
But.  
  
Based on everything in the girl’s file, based on her reactions during their only conversation to date…  
  
There was a decent chance that might actually work.  
  
 _I should be happy,_ she thought; the irony so thick she could practically taste it. _It looks like I finally have a Ward who respects my authority._  
  
The thought wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as she might have hoped.


	46. Atychiphobia 4.01

“Well, here we are,” Ms Grant said, bringing the car to a halt. “Arcadia High School.”

“Thank you for the ride,” I said, my voice emerging in a pathetic near-whisper. I coughed in an attempt to clear the choking lump of apprehension that seemed to have lodged in my throat. “I appreciate it.”

I was surprised to realise I actually meant that.

I had said — repeatedly — that I was perfectly capable of getting myself to school via public transport. I was even capable of doing so in a way that minimised the risk of anyone noticing I was starting my journey at the PRT HQ, although I hadn’t actually voiced that part, just thought it very loudly. Unfortunately, my carefully worded protests had apparently counted for jack shit. I had been informed in no uncertain terms that, at least to begin with, someone would be driving me to and from school.

I’d tried not to feel offended.

When it came down to it, though, it was actually, weirdly, kind of… nice… to have a friendly — if occasionally daunting — presence by my side right now. I mean, I didn’t need it or anything stupid like that. I’d been to so many different schools in my time that starting at yet another new one barely even bothered me any more. The cocktail of apprehension and anticipation bubbling up inside me was a familiar sensation; a known quantity.

(Even if, this time around, unlike all the others, I was bereft of my family; my one and only constant. I was unmoored. Cast adrift.)

So I would’ve been fine on my own. Still, it still felt oddly reassuring to have Ms Grant here. Or, at least, it did now she was no longer giving me the third degree about how I’d spent my weekend.

Well, selected parts of my weekend.

I hadn’t expected her to be the one playing chauffeur for me. I guessed she really had been serious about acting as my sort-of-guardian until the PRT appointed me an official keeper. I was honestly surprised she had the time. When I’d cautiously brought that up, though, she’d told me very firmly that I didn’t need to worry about it, and that she would make the time. I… hadn’t argued with her after that.

“You’re very welcome, Astrid,” she said now, her tone brisk but, I thought, genuine. Strange though it seemed, even though she barely knew me, even though she really had no reason to, she actually seemed to… care? At least, I couldn’t think of another reason why she was giving up her own time to ferry me to and from school.

(That would change if she ever found out who and what I really was. I was sure of it.)

I unclipped my seatbelt, holding in a wince as I bent to retrieve my bag from the footwell and my sore ribs protested the movement.

“I guess I should get going,” I murmured.

“Please wait a moment,” she said, the command halting me before I could open the door.

“Yes, Ms Grant?”

To my surprise, she actually turned the engine off and unclipped her own seat belt, swivelling around a little in her seat to face me properly. (I tried not to dwell on how exposed I felt without my mask.) I didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked over my bruises, again, and unease shivered down my spine as I wondered if she was about to resume her interrogation.

Instead of asking me a question, though, she merely said, “As I understand it, Arcadia has… somewhat higher academic standards than Winslow.”

“I’m aware of that,” I said cautiously, thinking, _Understatement of the fucking century._ I was honestly just glad that they hadn’t decided to drop me back a grade. “And I’m prepared to work as hard as I need to so I can catch up.”

“I know you are,” she said, her tone oddly gentle, even though her expression remained sober. “But changing schools mid-semester is quite a disruption. And with everything else going on right now…” She made a vague gesture that I assumed was supposed to encompass the whole sorry shitshow that was my life. The pause went on long enough that I started to wonder if she was waiting for a response, but then she continued, “What I’m trying to say is, it’s alright if it takes you some time to adjust. Don’t worry too much if your grades drop a little at first. Just do your best, and don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it.”

_What?_

But… wasn’t it the Youth Guard who complained if the Wards didn’t keep their grades up? This didn’t make any fucking sense. Was it some kind of test? Did she want to see if I was the kind of person who would slack off given half a chance? Was she looking for a reason to have me-

No.

No, that didn’t make sense either. Especially not coming from Ms Grant. She wouldn’t… I was pretty sure she wouldn’t set me up to fail. Not even if doing so would, I don’t know; would somehow gain the Youth Guard a… a political advantage of some kind. Like an excuse to increase their oversight.

Maybe… Maybe she just thought I looked worried. Maybe she was trying to calm me down so I didn’t panic and irrevocably fuck something up on my first day at a new school. Maybe she was just trying to help.

That honestly seemed more likely to me, however misguided the attempt.

Much though part of me wanted to take offence at being thought in need of such… coddling, I pushed that irritation aside, focusing instead on the intent behind the action. It was enough for me be able to make myself swallow my pride and give her a more or less genuine smile.

“Thank you, Ms Grant,” I said, managing a suitably pleasant tone. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Even if I had no fucking intention of letting my grades slip. No matter how hard I had to work.

The look she gave me then was sharp, and for a moment I thought she was going to call me on my lack of sincerity. In the end, though, all she said was, “Good. Well, you have my number if there are any problems. Otherwise, I’ll see you later.” She did smile, then. “Have a good day at school, Astrid. Try to make some friends.”

I gave her a sceptical look before I could stop myself.

Friends. Right.

_I’ll settle for not making any enemies…_

* * * * *

“You're the new transfer student, aren’t you?” asked the voice of an angel. Or, Victoria, anyway. Close enough.

As she gracefully rose from her seat to cross the short distance between us, I shook off the stupid paralysis that had afflicted me all of a sudden and made myself return her smile. Except… I was apparently already smiling. I didn’t remember doing that, but whatever. Hopefully my expression didn’t look too gormless.

(It felt weird to act like we’d never met; like we were total strangers. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t the first time I’d had to lie for the sake of maintaining a cover. Nor would it be the last.)

(Anyway, we practically were strangers. I’d only met her once, and it wasn’t like we were actually friends, no matter what she’d said.)

“That’s right,” I said, belatedly. “I’m… My name is Astrid.”

I barely recognised my own voice. I sounded oddly… perky. I didn’t do perky. It just wasn’t me.

_I guess it’s just nice to see a friendly, familiar face._

But just as that thought crossed my mind she frowned suddenly, and my heart thudded in my chest at the thought that I’d somehow managed to do something to piss her off.

“You look like you’ve been in the wars, Astrid,” she murmured, and I relaxed a little when I realised that she was just looking at my bruises. Movement drew my eye; her hand reaching towards me, and I tensed again, caught between wanting to smack her hand away and… and I didn’t know what. Enduring her touch, I guessed. Except she pulled her hand back at the last moment, so that contact never came.

That was… good. It was good. It was for the best.

“Not really,” I said, struggling to keep my tone light and airy, to ignore the way my cheeks burned with embarrassment about my utter lack of social graces. “It looks worse than it is.”

I made myself take a breath and relax, forcefully reminding myself that I was off-duty right now; just an ordinary civilian going about her day. It was… harder than I’d expected to keep myself in the right mental zone; harder than it usually was. Then again, I didn’t usually hang around with capes.

“I certainly hope so,” Victoria murmured, giving me a keen-eyed once-over before shaking herself slightly and dialling her smile back up. It was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. (Distantly, dazedly, I noted that she must’ve gotten carried away with her aura again.) “But where are my manners?” she said brightly. “My name is Victoria. Victoria Dallon.” She flipped her hair back with what seemed to me like a practiced motion, putting one hand on her hip as she struck a pose. “Also known as-”

“Showoff,” someone fake-muttered, easily loud enough to carry.

Victoria whipped her head around, glowering at the speaker, and I frantically shoved down my instinctive urge to move into a defensive stance and reach for my power. The migraine prodded at my brain, reminding me that it was still there, and I bit back a curse.

“Do you mind?” Victoria asked huffily, and I belatedly realised that Amy was the one who’d spoken.

Fuck. I’d barely been aware of my surroundings at all while I was talking to Victoria. That was… I had to be better than that. I had to. Forcing myself to focus, I covertly scanned the cafeteria. There was some attention directed our way, but not as much as I might have expected, and the majority of the curious looks came from the people sitting at Victoria’s table. Mostly, people seemed focused on their own shit.

I guessed attending school with a couple of open capes would tend to reduce the novelty value of their shenanigans.

“Not at all,” Amy replied, smirking at her sister.

She seemed… relaxed. Not at all like she was expecting Victoria to lash out at her. Which made sense, of course. This was the middle of the cafeteria; there were witnesses. Principal Martin had made it very, very clear to me earlier that Arcadia had a zero tolerance policy for violence. And that Wards were emphatically not exempt. Which presumably meant that neither were independent capes.

Anyway, from what I’d seen of their interactions during our shopping trip, the Dallon sisters, unlike Lance and me, actually liked each other. They probably didn’t fight the way we did.

I was just being stupid. Stupid and twitchy and pathetic.

Victoria gave Amy one last glare — which apparently fazed her not at all — and then turned back to me with a rueful smile.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

I wasn’t sure if she was apologising for the posing, or for her sister’s interruption, but I judged it safer not to ask.

“No need to apologise,” I said instead.

From the way her smile brightened, that was apparently the right thing to say. Or, at least, not the wrong thing.

“Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” she said. “I’m also known as Glory Girl.”

“I know who you are,” I found myself saying, which wasn’t actually too bad, all things considered. Or, it wouldn’t have been, except for the fact that I just kept fucking talking. “You’re beauti-, uh, **memorable**.”

_Motherfucker!_

My face was on fire right now. Apparently, aura plus migraine equalled foot in mouth syndrome. I should have just stayed away from the cafeteria; stayed away from people. I should have just found some out of the way place to hole up and eat my lunch.

I heard someone laugh. It sounded close. From the table Victoria had been sitting at? I wasn’t sure. Was it aimed at me, or was the timing just a coincidence? Either way, I studiously avoided checking to see if anyone was smirking in my direction. Goddammit all to hell! This was the reason why I kept myself to myself. Well, one of the reasons. I was shit enough at social interactions without throwing things like migraines and fucking emotion-manipulating auras into the mix.

The only consolation was that Victoria herself didn’t seem to be laughing at me. Nor did she seem irritated with my verbal flailing. She actually seemed… pleased?

“That’s so sweet of you to say,” she said, and somehow the embarrassment felt a little less important. “Anyway, what I wanted to say was, would you like to eat lunch with us? There’s plenty of room at our table.”

She gestured, and I glanced in that direction, scanning over the gaggle of people clustered around what were actually a couple of tables pushed together. It was a fairly sizeable crowd, and a surprisingly eclectic-looking one. Not just in terms of ethnicities, but also in terms of the way they were dressed, and their general… demeanour? It kind of made me think of an old film I’d seen, once upon a time. The Brunch Club? Something like that. Dean and Amy were the only familiar faces amongst them, but that wasn’t a surprise. Dennis and Chris were the only other people I knew who went to Arcadia, and it made sense that they wouldn’t be hanging out with Dean.

Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I should just politely decline Victoria’s offer and eat lunch by myself, as usual. But then I looked at her and…

“Thank you. I’d like that.”

_Goddammit!_

* * * * *

“You know, the food here at Arcadia is actually pretty good,” Victoria said, watching me as I unpacked the sandwich, fruit and water I’d retrieved from my bag.

I shrugged, ignoring the way my shoulder twinged with the motion. I must have strained it when Lance wrenched my arm behind my back.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect. Anyway, I usually bring my own lunch.”

It was generally cheaper to do that, and I didn’t like wasting money. Plus, years of shitty schools with shitty, unhealthy cafeteria food had conditioned me to assume the worst, and I preferred to have some measure of control over what I ate. Not to mention that going to the cafeteria at the same time every day meant that anyone looking to have words with me would have an easy way to track me down outside of class. Fights in the Winslow cafeteria — just like in so many of the other schools I’d attended in my time — weren’t anywhere near uncommon enough for me to assume that ‘public’ meant ‘safe.’

Victoria accepted my answer without any obvious judgement, merely peering with apparent interest at my lunch as she ate some of her own. (Some kind of fish with potatoes and vegetables, I noted with approval; nutritious and healthy.)

“What do you have?” she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

I was honestly surprised she was still paying attention to me. Once she’d introduced me to everyone at the table, I kind of assumed she’d just leave me to my own devices and go back to chatting with her real friends. Apparently, though, when she rolled out the welcome wagon, she did it properly.

“Nothing too exciting,” I said. “Just hummus and salad.” I couldn’t quite keep back a disappointed sigh, although I did at least manage to refrain from glowering at the sandwich.

Victoria raised her eyebrows. She seemed amused, but… not in a malicious way, I thought. Or, if it was, she was very good at hiding it.

“Not your favourite?”

“It’s okay,” I said, “just a little bland. I usually prefer to add a few things to give it a little more flavour, but I’m recovering from a migraine at the moment and strong flavours make me feel kind of queasy.”

Recovering was maybe a little bit of an overstatement, since the migraine was still hanging around like a bad smell. But I was definitely better than I had yesterday. Much, much better.

“That sounds terrible,” Victoria said sympathetically. She started to lean in, as if she was about to hug me. I made myself stay perfectly still but, just as she had before, she caught herself before actually making contact. I wondered uneasily if Amy or Dean had said something to her about me not liking to be touched. (I wondered if she thought I was pathetic.) “Are you sure you’re well enough to be here?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

Well, Dr Emerson had cleared me to be here, which was close enough to count. Even if I’d had to come closer to outright pleading than I was truly comfortable with before he’d finally, grudgingly agreed that I was well enough to go to school. And even that was conditional on me promising not to overexert myself. Honestly, I was just glad Dr Hart hadn’t been on duty at the time. From the lecture she’d given me while she’d treated my latest bumps and bruises, I got the impression that she didn’t really trust me to be out and about right now.

Personally, I thought she was being highly unreasonable. It wasn’t like I’d set out to get in a fight!

Victoria made a noncommittal ‘hmm’ noise. She glanced over in Amy’s direction, but Amy was apparently focused on her own lunch — although she was playing with it more than she was actually eating it, I noted with disapproval — and didn’t meet her gaze.

“Migraines are the worst,” Dean said, giving me a sympathetic look.

“Too fucking right,” I agreed with feeling.

I tried not to feel guilty that I’d usurped his place at Victoria’s side. There had been an empty seat further along the table, but Victoria had made everyone move down so that I could sit next to her. Well, asked them. Same difference, really. The others acquiesced readily enough, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. I hoped none of them resented me for it.

“Do you get them often?” asked one of the girls. Lin was her name, I remembered. She was short, dark-haired and dark-eyed. Maybe… Chinese-American? (I refused to wonder if her family had ties to the ABB. I was better than that.) She dressed in a vaguely hippyish style; all layers and patchwork and bright colours. Worn and mended, though, rather than shiny and new, I couldn’t help noticing. Thrift store chic. Like me, she’d brought her lunch from home.

“Too damn often,” I answered her, pulling a face. That was certainly true enough. And if they thought it happened frequently, I had a handy excuse for being away from school on Wards business, or if I ended up getting damaged during an operation, or whatever. (Although, if I kept pushing the limits of my powers, the implication might end up being truer than I would like.)

“So, where did you transfer from?” asked one of the other girls. Mina? No, Meera. Slender, dark and stylish enough that she looked like she’d stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine. If not for Victoria, she’d likely be the prettiest girl at the table. (I wondered if that bothered her; just being a runner-up when in another group she’d be a winner.) “Did you just move to Brockton Bay?” Her mouth twisted up in a wry grin as she added, “If so, my commiserations.”

“I didn’t just move here,” I said, trying in vain not to sound defensive. “I transferred from Winslow.”

That got me a few considering looks, the attention making me feel really fucking awkward. I focused on my sandwich, doing my level best to ignore the occasional mild tremors of nausea as I forced myself to keep chewing and swallowing.

“You made a good choice,” Victoria assured me, smiling. “Arcadia’s an excellent school.” Her eyes glittering mischievously, she struck a pose, flipping her hair again like a model as she said, “And, of course, I’m here.”

I laughed without meaning to and almost choked on my bite of sandwich. That, of course, triggered a coughing fit of epic proportions, and I flailed desperately for my water bottle as I hacked and spluttered, desperately praying that my lunch didn’t seize the opportunity to try to make a break for it. Victoria said something, but I couldn’t quite make out the words, and the next thing I knew she was thumping me on the back. I froze, or tried to, the coughs wracking my body making it all-but impossible to stay still. But, thankfully, they finally seemed to be easing. My face scarlet with embarrassment, exertion and lack of oxygen, I fumbled the cap off my water bottle and took a few small, slow, sips.

_Breathe,_ I told myself. _Just… breathe._

Don’t think about the fact that I’d just made a complete and utter idiot of myself in front of God and everybody. (In front of Dean. In front of **Victoria**.)

Don’t think about the fact that Victoria was really fucking close right now; close enough that I could smell her perfume, for crying out loud. (It was the one she’d worn during the shopping trip; the one that smelled like springtime. Or maybe that was just her. A side-effect of her fucking aura, maybe. Who the fuck knew? There were weirder powers, after all.)

Definitely don’t think about the fact that even though she’d stopped thumping my back, she hadn’t taken her hand away, and her slim, strong fingers rested lightly just between my shoulder blades.

I wasn’t sure if it just hadn’t occurred to her to move, or if it was meant to be reassuring, but if it was the latter she’d missed the mark by a country mile. It felt like my skin was prickling with tension, my heart hammering against my rib cage like it was trying to escape.

Fuck, this was uncomfortable.

“I don’t know how they do things at Winslow,” Amy said into the awkward silence. “But here at Arcadia, we try not to inhale our food.”

“No, apparently you just play with it instead,” I retorted before I could think better of it, giving her still mostly full plate a meaningful glance before meeting her gaze. She gave me an irritated look, but Victoria cut in before she could say anything.

“Oh, Ames,” she said, in a tone of mingled concern and disappointment.

“What?” Amy replied, something that looked a lot like guilt briefly flickering over her face before her features settled into what seemed to be her habitual expression; the one that said the field in which she grew her fucks was completely barren.

I’d say this for the girl, her resting bitchface was pretty impressive. It might even have given mine a run for its money.

In any case, Victoria released me to fuss over her sister, and I could finally breathe again. I took another careful sip of water, and tried to will my face to cool down. Fuck, I must have been the colour of a fire truck right now.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked.

I was impressed beyond measure that his expression didn’t even show the slightest hint of amusement at my mishap. Some of the other people at the table weren’t nearly so restrained, and I fought the urge to glare daggers at some of the offending individuals. Like the prissy little chit who was blatantly laughing her ass off at me. She saw me looking at her, I knew she did, but she didn’t seem to care one whit, leaning close to the girl next to her to to murmur something in her ear. Whatever it was, it made her look in my direction and smirk.

_Fucking assholes._

I made a mental note of their names: Karen and Tammy — or, as I pettily nicknamed them, Hyena-Girl and Smirker — and added them to my list of people to keep an eye on.

(My Arcadia list didn’t have more than a handful of names at the moment, but I’d only been here half a day. I was sure it would expand in time.)

“I’m fine, thanks,” I belatedly answered Dean, managing to scrounge up a rueful smile from somewhere. “Unless it’s possible to actually die of embarrassment, in which case the jury’s still out.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he lied politely. “These things happen.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” drawled one of the few guys at the table. He was so pale he looked like he’d combust at the slightest whiff of sunlight. Or garlic. That impression was strengthened by the fact that he was dressed all in black. “At least you didn’t trip over your own feet and dump your lunch down someone’s back. To choose a completely random example off the top of my head.”

“Hey!” Lin squawked indignantly. “No fair, Connor. Why’d you have to go and bring that up?” She turned to me suddenly, whirling around so fast that her many layers spun out around her, briefly surrounding her in a nimbus of bright colours. “I’m really not that much of a klutz,” she told me, something almost endearing about just how very earnest she was. (It made me think of Chris, a little.) “It was just a random accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

“I believe you,” I assured her, because it seemed like the right thing to say. From the way she smiled at me, I couldn’t have been too far off the mark.

“Give it time,” Connor said, shaking his head in a vaguely pitying manner. Lin glared at him, but said nothing further.

“Nice wristbands,” I told him. He could do someone a serious mischief if he smacked them with one of those metal-studded accessories. Plus, they looked pretty badass.

“Thanks,” he said, giving me a lopsided smile. “Nice bracelets.”

“Thanks,” I replied awkwardly, my answering smile a little half-hearted.

I glanced at my own wrists; at the pitiful couple of bangles that adorned each one. They were my holdout weapons, my backups in case something happened to the ones I usually wore. And… something had. The metal I’d been wearing yesterday had ended up warped so snugly around my arms that I hadn’t been able to take it off. They’d cut it off me in the infirmary, and until my power recovered, I didn’t have any way of making it wearable again. Shit, there wasn’t really much point in even wearing metal at the moment. I couldn’t even really feel it like this, and if I tried to actually use it, I’d probably end up knocking myself unconscious again. But, even so, the thought of leaving it off made me feel kind of… anxious. I felt naked without it.

Anyway, it was better to establish from the outset that I was the kind of person who wore chunky jewellery. That way, no one would think it strange when I rocked up to school with a full loadout.

(I really fucking hoped I hadn’t damaged myself permanently.)

“They are pretty impressive,” Victoria said, making me jump a little as she leaned in towards me. “But they don’t really go with your earrings.”

“I guess not,” I said, fighting not to hunch into my seat at her clear disapproval. “I… didn’t really think about that.”

The way I looked had been the last thing on my mind when, on a whim, I’d decided to wear the jewellery set that Carlos had given me. What they represented was much more important. As a gift from my commander, they were a reminder that, even though I didn’t have my family, I still had a team. That I wasn’t on my own, no matter how lost I felt right now. That I was… part of something.

Maybe it was weak of me, but today of all days I really fucking needed that reminder.

I was just glad I’d managed to stop myself talking before I actually said any of that out loud.

“Let me see?”

I nodded, tilting my head a little and tucking my hair back behind my ear so she could get a clear view.

“There’s a necklace as well,” I said, fumbling it out from under my T-shirt in case she wanted to take a look at that, too. “And a bracelet.”

“They’re pretty,” she said, and smiled suddenly. “You have good taste.”

“I can’t really take the credit,” I said, feeling really fucking awkward. “The set was a gift.”

“Oh?” She actually looked interested, and I mentally kicked myself. Maybe I should just have accepted the compliment, misplaced though it was.

“Yeah,” I said. “Belated birthday present. From a…” My mind went blank for a moment, the space between my words cringingly noticeable before I managed to kickstart my brain again and come up with, “Friend.”

“A ‘friend,’ huh?” Victoria’s expression was openly amused, and I cringed inside as I realised what that must have sounded like.

“Yeah.”

Didn’t she realise I must have been talking about a Ward? It wasn’t like I knew anyone else who would be giving me presents. And even if I did, I’d barely set foot outside the PRT HQ since I’d got there. Although… I supposed I hadn’t actually told her that last part.

“Would this ‘friend’ be a boy, perhaps?”

She didn’t actually make air quotes with her fingers, but she didn’t need to. They were pretty fucking audible.

Hellfire and damnation! This was why I kept myself to myself. Less chance of getting myself into awkward conversations like this if I never fucking talked to anyone.

“Yes,” I said, striving to keep my tone light and not to sound defensive or, worse, openly hostile, “but it’s not like… that.” My face was hotter than the surface of the sun right now, or at least that was how it seemed to me. “It was a birthday present, that’s all.”

Victoria laughed. I didn’t think she intended it in a mean way, but it made me twitch nonetheless. She seemed about to say something else, but then she frowned slightly. I couldn’t have sworn to it, but something that looked like concern showed in her eyes.

In the end, all she actually said was, “I believe you, Astrid.” And then, to my eternal, heartfelt gratitude, she changed the fucking subject.

* * * * *

This was a mistake. This was possibly the biggest mistake I’d made today, and given how many times I’d stuck both feet in my mouth, that was saying something. If I fucked this up, the consequences could be… unpleasant. Nevertheless, I took a breath — thankfully managing not to choke on it — turned to Amy, and tried to… make conversation.

“So, Amy,” I began.

My plan — such as it was — had been to ask whether she, like Victoria, took college classes in the afternoons. That was derailed, however, when she shot a me a distinctly jaundiced look, and snapped, “I don’t take requests.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you for anything,” I said, a little taken aback.

“Really.” It was too flat to be a question, and she eyed my bruises pointedly before dropping her gaze back to the mess on her plate.

“Really.” _Bitch,_ I appended silently. “No need to bite my fucking head off,” I added not so silently.

_Shit._

I glanced around the table quickly, but Victoria was very focused on Dean, and everyone else was politely ignoring them; talking among themselves, or fiddling with phones, or whatever. That was why I’d decided to try to talk to Amy in the first place, for crying out loud! I thought she might appreciate the distraction. I knew I sure as shit would’ve done if Lance and one of his girlfriends had been shamelessly flirting and making out right in front of me.

Ugh. Even the thought of that made me feel ill.

My gaze inadvertently drifted back to Victoria and Dean and I instantly wrenched it away, fighting not to pull a face. Trying to keep the flush from my cheeks was already a lost cause.

When I turned back to Amy, I found her leaning back a little in her chair this time, rather than hunching over her plate. She was looking right at me, the amusement glittering in her eyes making me think of light glinting off broken glass.

“Jealous?” she asked.

“No,” I growled, glaring daggers at her as I tried not to clench my hands into fists. I searched for a suitable retort, but the only thing that came to mind was the rather pathetic, “Are you?”

To my great surprise, she actually twitched. But then she lifted her chin and looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off the bottom of her shoe.

“Let me guess,” she said scornfully, “you like the attention. It makes you feel special.”

“The fuck are you blithering on about?” Thankfully, I at least managed to retain enough presence of mind to keep my voice to a low murmur.

She just continued as if I hadn’t spoken, her own voice barely audible over the sounds of the cafeteria.

“It was pathetic, the way you lapped it up. Like a… a… lost puppy desperate for affection.”

I flinched despite myself, horribly aware of how weak I’d been, how utterly unable to say no to Victoria. Not so much today, I thought, but during the shopping trip… Yeah. Not my finest hour.

Not that I’d ever admit that to Amy.

(Curse that thrice-bedamned aura.)

Anyway, I wasn’t a fucking puppy!

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said coldly, belatedly, drawing myself up so I could look down at her. “And you sure as shit don’t know me.” I paused for a moment, for emphasis, and added, “Ames.”

For an instant, naked fury blazed through her mask of indifference, and I felt a spiteful thrill of satisfaction at actually cracking the bitch’s composure. She recovered fast, though, and I tried to brace myself for the inevitable return fire.

_Don’t lose your temper,_ I warned myself. _Don’t let the bitch get to you._

“Is that how you got some poor sap to buy you jewellery?” she drawled in a voice made of pure, honeyed poison. “Did you pull the wounded bird routine? Get him to feel sorry for you?”

Fuck me sideways. When it came to pushing my buttons, she could give fucking **Hess** a run for her money.

Despite my best efforts, my pulse thundered in my ears, my hands clenching into fists without my say-so. My split knuckles stung a little as scabs and scrapes stretched taut and I welcomed the pain, letting it centre and ground me.

_I owe her,_ I reminded myself. Anyway, fighting with her now was a bad idea. What I needed to do calm the fuck down and not make this worse than it already was.

“It was a fucking birthday present, you insufferable cow.”

_Well, shit._

Apparently ‘calm’ simply wasn’t on the cards right now.

“Uhuh.” A thin, tight smile curved Amy’s lips. “You’re not really that naive, are you?”

I imagined hauling off and punching her in the face. And… then I thought about how Victoria would turn me into a smear on the ground immediately afterwards. Even if I survived her vengeance, I’d probably end up being expelled from school. Maybe even prosecuted. Definitely disciplined within an inch of my life.

No. No matter how satisfying it would be in the moment, smacking the freckles off Amy’s face would absolutely not be worth the shit that would rain down on me afterwards.

But, fuck, it felt good to imagine it.

“If you have something to say, **Ames** , just spit it out.”

She looked at me for a moment, and then shrugged.

“If a guy buys a girl jewellery, it means he wants to get in her pants.”

The words hit me like a wave of icy water, chilling me to the bone. They stole my breath, quenched the flame of my anger; left me struggling not to gasp and tremble in their wake.

In contrast to her previous words, these were spoken almost matter-of-factly. Somehow, that just made it worse.

“That’s not true,” I heard myself say, my voice sounding distant and strange in my ears. “It’s… You’re wrong.”

She had to be. Carlos didn’t… He didn’t like me like that. He couldn’t. And… and even if he did, which he didn’t, he surely wouldn’t try to… do anything about it. He was my commanding officer, for fuck’s sake. It would be wildly inappropriate.

My chest weirdly tight all of a sudden.

“What’s wrong with you?” Amy asked, her voice sharp. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”

“I’m… N- Nothing. I’m fine,” I lied. It took me a moment to remember that I had a ready-made excuse. “Migraine, that’s all. It comes and goes.”

She studied me for a moment, frowning. Suddenly unable to bear the scrutiny, I started packing up the apple and orange I was now far too queasy to actually eat, my stomach roiling and rolling like a storm-tossed ocean.

I needed to get out of here. I didn’t even care that it would mean conceding this fight. I just… I needed a few moments to myself so I could get my head straight.

So I could have my little wibble fit, or whatever, in private, away from prying, judging eyes.

So I could remind myself that Amy didn’t know what the flying fuck she was talking about.

When I glanced over in Amy’s direction, she looked like she was about to say something, but instead she just let the breath out in a sigh.

“Whatever,” she said, shrugging. She resumed playing with her lunch.

It was probably weak of me, but I couldn’t help a flare of relief that she didn’t say anything else.

Fuck, I really needed to get out of here. I gathered my things and got to my feet, plotting a route to the nearest exit. I had the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something, but I dismissed it as unimportant as I forced my recalcitrant body into motion…

And almost ran straight into Victoria, who was eyeing me with what looked like surprise.

“Are you leaving already?”

Well, fuck. I guessed now I knew what it was I’d forgotten. If you were technically sitting with other people, I supposed it was customary to actually say goodbye before making a break for freedom.

_Things were so much easier when I didn’t have to worry about what other people thought of me…_

* * * * *

“Hey, Astrid, wait up.”

Hellfire and damnation! What was it now?

I was seriously tempted just to keep going; to pretend I hadn’t heard Lin call out to me. Despite my misgivings, though, I paused to let her catch up. My spirits sank further when I realised she wasn’t alone.

“Thanks,” Meera said when she drew near enough to speak without shouting. She quirked an eyebrow at me. “You walk fast.”

_I do when I’m trying to get the fuck away from you,_ I thought peevishly. It was honestly somewhat uncharitable of me given I hadn’t actually been trying to get away from them, specifically. I didn’t actually have a problem with either of them. Quite the opposite, actually, given that they’d both been fairly welcoming to the new girl. It was just… I really wasn’t in a fit state to be around people right now.

“I guess,” was all I said out loud though. I plastered on what I hoped was an expression of polite curiosity and asked, “Did you need something?”

The two of them exchanged a look.

“Not… exactly,” Meera murmured, at the same time as Lin blurted out,

“Just to talk.”

I immediately checked for threats. There was a group of kids further down the hallway, but they were all clustered around some boy with a laptop, watching something that seemed to involve loud car noises. A couple of people heading towards the cafeteria; a girl fiddling with her phone and a boy bobbing his head to whatever music was being piped through his headphones. No one who looked like they were lying in wait. No obvious signs that this was an ambush.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though.

“What did you want to talk about?” Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t quite keep the wariness from my voice.

Lin held out her hands in what I thought was probably meant to be a calming gesture.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise. We just…” She trailed off, biting her lip, and Meera stepped into the silence.

“Why don’t we walk and talk?” she said. “You were heading to the library, right?”

All my instincts were screaming that this was a trap. But… fuck it. With the mood I was in, if someone did want a fight, I was more than happy to give them one. No matter how pathetic I might have looked right now, I could still give a damn good accounting of myself, as Lance had found to his cost. They’d see I wasn’t a fucking pushover.

Besides, on the off-chance Lin and Meera really did just want to talk, I was kind of curious to hear what they had to say.

“Right,” I said, making a determined effort to soften my tone. I even managed a smile. “It should be quieter than the cafeteria, at least. And hopefully not as bright.”

“Oh, it definitely has some dark corners here and there,” Meera murmured. “Right, Lin?”

I wasn’t entirely sure why that made Lin splutter, but I wasn’t going to ask.

We set an easy pace. Well, I let them set the pace, seeing as they were quite a bit shorter than me. Next to them, I felt not unlike a giant. Or maybe an ogre. Some kind of lumbering, brutish creature at any rate. Especially next to Meera, who was so delicate and-

“You know, it’s okay if you have a crush on Victoria, right?”

_What?_

I stopped dead, staring at Meera. She looked back at me, eyebrows raised a little and the slightest of smiles lifting the corners of her lips.

“Excuse me?” I must have been mistaken. I must have misheard. I was… I was wrong. I had to be. “What did you say?”

“It’s okay if you have a crush on Victoria,” she repeated. “You wouldn’t be the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

I felt like I’d just been punched. I felt like I wanted to punch someone. How fucking **dare** she? Was she asking for a slap? Was she deliberately trying to provoke me? Because she was sure as shit going the right way about it.

“I don’t have…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence; couldn’t make myself say the words. “I’m not a… I’m not… Y- You can’t go around accusing people like that! It’s not… You just can’t!”

My voice had risen, the last words emerging in a kind of strangled, scandalised yelp. I couldn’t catch my breath. My face was on fire, and it felt like the walls were closing in. Every inch of my skin was crawling with discomfort.

“Hey there,” Lin said, making that soothing motion with her hands again. “Let’s just calm down a moment.”

“I am fucking calm,” I growled.

“I can see that,” Meera murmured dryly, and my hands twitched half-into fists before I could stop them.

“Quiet, you,” Lin snapped, shooting her an annoyed look. “I think you’ve said enough.”

Meera shrugged, clearly unrepentant.

“Well if I left it to you, we’d be here all day,” she drawled. “Best to just rip the bandaid off. Get it over with.”

Lin huffed out a breath, waving her hands around like she was conducting an orchestra.

“Meera, we talked about this. You can’t just…” She shook her head, the movement involving her whole body so that her layers floated out around her again, and flung out one arm in my direction. “She went to **Winslow** , for crying out loud.”

I blinked at the non sequitur.

“What the fuck has that got to do with anything?” I demanded, feeling like I was losing the thread of this conversation. Not that I’d ever had it in the first place. What the flying fuck was going on here?

“Well, it’s…” Lin gave me what seemed to be a sympathetic look. “Winslow has kind of a… reputation?” I wasn’t sure if she’d really intended that to be a question. “I know it’s not a safe space, not like Arcadia. You hear things, about the Empire, and about the teachers just… letting things happen. It sounds like it would be a pretty risky place to be out.”

“By which she means we’ve heard about guys getting the crap kicked out of them just because someone thought they might be gay,” Meera put in.

“They do worse to girls,” I muttered, without even meaning to speak.

Despite my best efforts, a memory flashed through my mind. A snatch of conversation I’d overheard between some of Dad’s men.

‘Dykes just need a good hard fucking,’ one of them had said, derision in his voice. ‘Nothing wrong with them that a real man can’t fix.’

‘Whether they like it or not,” had been the reply. And then they’d all just… laughed about it. Like it was… was funny.

I’d had to get out of there. I just couldn’t listen to that any longer.

Anyway, I sure as shit didn’t want to think about that now, and damn these bitches for dredging up shit I’d much rather forget. Doing my level best to ignore the unease trailing icy fingers down my spine and twisting my stomach like a pretzel, I shoved the memory aside and glowered at my accusers, telling myself that smacking around two of Victoria’s friends would not end well for me.

Plus, there was Arcadia’s whole ‘zero tolerance for violence’ thing to think about.

Lin and Meera exchanged a long look, and then turned back to me. Lin stepped back a little as she met my gaze, her eyes widening with what looked like surprise. Meera, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed.

“I can see why queer kids at Winslow would stay firmly in the closet,” she said.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself, deliberately looming over her.

“Well I’m **not** like that,” I said. “And I don’t have a fucking crush.” I still couldn’t bring myself to put Victoria’s name in that sentence. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

She looked up at me, her expression unreadable. “Evidently not,” she murmured.

I studied her for a moment, wondering if she was being sarcastic. Part of me — a large part — wanted to push; wanted to grab her and force her to take back that accusation. To mess up that pretty face of hers, maybe. To show her that there were consequences for throwing those kinds of accusations around.

Somehow, though, I made myself keep my body still and my temper just about leashed.

It wasn’t easy.

“Okay, let’s try this again, maybe?” Lin’s smile was almost manic-looking as she bounced up and down on her toes, her energy at odds with the gentle, calming gestures she still kept making with her hands.

I thought seriously about just getting the fuck out of there, but… I was still kind of curious to hear what else they had to say.

(And maybe I’d find out why Meera had… said what she’d said.)

“Try what again?” I asked suspiciously.

She took a deep, audible breath, and stopped bouncing, fixing me with an earnest expression.

“Look, Astrid, no one’s saying you actually do have a crush. Not that it would be a bad thing if you did, of course, but-”

“I don’t,” I said firmly.

“Right. Well. What we were trying to say is that… Victoria is super nice, and she has this thing about not wanting anyone to feel left out. So she makes a point of befriending any girl who seems lonely, or who doesn’t know too many people.”

“Like transfer students,” Meera added, rather unnecessarily.

_Oh,_ I thought, as it felt like something jagged lodged itself in my chest. _That’s what this is about._

“If you’re trying to tell me I’m not special, you don’t need to worry about it,” I said, trying not to sound bitter. “I already know that.”

“That’s not it at all!” Lin protested. Credit where credit was due, she actually sounded like she meant that. I opened my mouth to say that it was okay, that she didn’t need to worry about sparing my feelings, but she suddenly surged forward, reaching out towards me. She very nearly got herself thumped, but I managed to control my instinctive reaction enough to pull away from her instead. “Oh! Sorry,” she said quickly, looking startled.

“That’s okay,” I made myself reply, if a little grudgingly. “I just don’t do hugs.”

“Not from us, anyway,” Meera said softly. She smiled when I glowered at her, and smiled even more when Lin also glared in her direction. “What?”

“Not helping,” Lin said stiffly.

“Then get on with it.”

Lin glared at her a moment longer, and then turned to me, her expression earnest and open once more. (I’d say this for her: she was either one of the most genuine and expressive people I’d met, or she was a superlative actress. Time would tell which it turned out to be.)

“You are special,” she said softly. “That’s the thing. We all are, to Victoria. It’s just… It’s important to her that everyone feels like they have a place. So that’s what she does. And she’s not just going through the motions, either. Whenever she reaches out to someone, whenever she befriends someone, she absolutely means it. A hundred per cent, all the way. It’s all real. Every single time. And she doesn’t do things by halves.”

“She’s Glory Girl. That shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“When she brings a new person into the fold,” Lin continued as if Meera hadn’t spoken, “she tends to focus on them. And it can be…” Her gaze softened; went distant. “It’s like you’re at the centre of the sun. Like nothing and no one else matters but the two of you. It’s… magical.”

“We’ve all been there. We know what it’s like.”

“It can be confusing.” They’d fallen into a rhythm, I noticed. A back-and-forth that didn’t seem rehearsed so much as it just seemed to flow naturally. “Overwhelming. You’ve probably never experienced anything like her aura before. Even damped down, it can really put you off-balance if you don’t know what to expect.”

“People do get crushes. Even if they didn’t even think they liked girls that way. And sometimes it turns out that it’s just Victoria, and her aura, and it doesn’t mean anything. And sometimes…” Meera’s lips quirked into an almost fond smile as she added, “Sometimes it makes us re-evaluate certain assumptions we’d made about ourselves.”

Wait a minute. Was she saying that she…?

Thankfully, before I could follow that thought through to its conclusion, Lin was speaking again.

“The important thing,” she said firmly, “is that whatever you’re feeling, or not feeling, it’s okay. It’s a perfectly normal reaction.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, hating the uncertainty in my voice. Had I really made that much of a fool of myself? Fuck, had Amy been right? Had I really been acting like some kind of awestruck puppy?

“Because sometimes people freak out, afterwards,” Meera said matter-of-factly.

“Because, like I said, it can be a little overwhelming.” Lin’s voice was gentle, her expression strangely compassionate. “And it can be helpful to talk about it with someone who knows what that’s like.” She paused, looking at me. “So, do you want to talk?”

I thought for a moment, considering my answer carefully.

“Nothing to talk about, really,” I said. “It’s her aura, that’s all. I guess she was just letting it flare up a little more than usual for some reason. I’m not about to freak out or anything.”

Lin and Meera exchanged an inscrutable look.

“Well, that’s good,” Lin said, eventually. “Anyway, moving on. The other thing you need to know is that Victoria has a lot of friends, and she tends to make more. And she tries to make sure that she spends time with all of them. But there are only so many hours in the day, and there’s only one of her. So, at some point in the not too distant future, you’re going to notice that she’s not spending as much time with you as she did at first. And that can be… difficult.”

“People freak out about that, too,” Meera said. “Sometimes they get jealous, or desperate. And that can lead to drama, which royally sucks for everyone involved.

“It’s not quite that bad,” Lin said, shooting Meera a distinctly unimpressed look. “Not generally, anyway. But it’s true that not everyone copes well with the transition.”

“Hence this little heads up.”

“Because it’s easier if you know what to expect.”

“And if you don’t think you can handle it, it gives you time to figure out how to extricate yourself with a modicum of dignity.”

“Although, obviously, we’d prefer if you stick around.”

“Really?” I couldn’t help saying. “Because based on what you said, I would’ve thought you’d prefer there to be less competition for Victoria’s attention.”

“Not at all!” Lin said, grinning and bouncing on her toes again. “The more the merrier is my philosophy.”

“And you don’t necessarily want to be in Victoria’s spotlight all the time,” Meera said. “Even after you’ve been part of her court a while, having her undivided attention can still be a little overwhelming.” She smiled suddenly, an expression of sly amusement. “But you have to watch out for some of the other bitches. They’d sabotage you as soon as look at you.”

“Do you really have to phrase it like that?” Lin said reproachfully.

“What can I say? Bitches be crazy. If girls weren’t so pretty, I’d probably spend all my time with boys.”

“That’s just your internalised misogyny talking,” Lin said primly. “But we can argue about that later.”

“If we must,” Meera sighed. There was a mischievous glint in her eye that made me wonder if she’d just said that to mess with Lin. The two of them certainly seemed comfortable with each other. I guessed they must have been pretty good friends. Unless…

Oh god. It wasn’t… more than that, was it? They weren’t… together? Disgust churned inside me, and I did my level best to keep it from my face. Maybe transferring to Arcadia had been a mistake. Maybe Dad had been right about it, and it really was a… a hotbed of deviance and immorality.

What the fuck had I let myself in for?

Unable to help myself, I took another step back in case Lin tried to hug me again. Unfortunately, the movement drew their attention, and they both looked at me.

“What?” I asked, trying not to shrink under the scrutiny. (Trying not to wonder if they were going to try to… corrupt me.) “Is there something else?”

“Well, no,” Lin said, biting her lip. “But… are you okay? You seem a little… nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I snapped. “It’s just this fucking migraine, that’s all. That’s why I left the cafeteria.”

I’d hated having to make myself look weak in front of everyone, but it had made for a pretty handy excuse why I’d had to leave suddenly.

The look Meera gave me then was openly cynical, but Lin’s face immediately flooded with sympathy.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “You just wanted some peace and quiet, and here we are accosting you in the hallway. You must think we’re absolutely terrible.”

“No, not at all,” I said, which was probably true. I mean, they seemed nice enough. Even if there was a good chance they might have been… abnormal, which meant that they were not at all the kind of people I really should have been socialising with. But, apart from that, they seemed like decent people.

“Oh. Good.” Relief shone in her eyes, and she smiled at me like she actually meant it. I was starting to think that she was a little naive. I guessed there was a reason she occasionally reminded me of Chris.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave so suddenly because of your catfight with Amy?” Meera asked slyly.

“What?” I almost cringed at the guilt in my voice and the bloom of heat in my cheeks. “I wasn’t… We weren’t fighting.”

“Of course you weren’t.” She practically radiated disbelief. Not that I really blamed her. I mean, I sure as shit wouldn’t have believed me. Still, I had to try.

“I only just met her,” I lied.

“That’s what makes it so impressive,” she said, and there actually was something that sounded a little like admiration in her voice. “Aside from the odd sarcastic comment, she mostly just ignores the rest of us. But you really managed to get her riled up.” She inclined her head; an oddly regal gesture. “You must have a talent.”

“I didn’t… I…” Frustration stole my words, and I shook my head. “I was only trying to make conversation. I wasn’t setting out to piss her off.”

Not at first, anyway.

“Maybe she was already in a bad mood,” Lin said, giving a helpless kind of shrug.

“Maybe,” I said, trying not to think about what she’d said about boys and jewellery, and what message the former might be saying with the latter.

My skin prickled with goose pimples all of a sudden. There must’ve been a draught.

“Impressive at it was, though, you should probably be careful with Amy,” Meera said, the amusement replaced by a businesslike manner. “Victoria is very protective of her sister, and if she thinks you’ve upset her…”

(Fists slamming into my body; hands around my throat. Held in place no matter how hard I struggled. Utterly helpless in the face of overwhelming strength.)

“I’ll be careful,” I said, keeping my voice light despite the ice settling into my bones.

The last thing I wanted was for Victoria to be angry with me.

“We should probably let you go, I guess.” Lin’s voice, thankfully dragged me out of my thoughts. She sounded strangely hesitant, but when I focused on her she gave me a small smile and continued. “But if you have any questions later, or… or if you need to talk…” Digging around in one of her pockets, she pulled out a scrap of paper which she held out to me. “Here.”

I glanced down at it, and then back up at her.

“What is it?”

“My phone number.”

I opened my mouth to say it was fine, that I didn’t need to talk, that she could keep it, but there was something about the look in her eyes, kind of soft and maybe… hopeful? And…

Oh, fuck it. I could always throw her number away later. When she wasn’t looking at me like that.

“Thanks,” I said, accepting the scrap of paper and tucking it away in my pocket.

“You’re welcome,” she said, bouncing up and down as she practically beamed at me.

Behind her, Meera rolled her eyes.

I smiled awkwardly at both of them and started to head for the library, but something made me stop and ask, “Do people really end up getting crushes on Victoria all the time? Even… Even girls?”

I mean, I could understand why they might, if they were… inclined that way. She was beautiful, smart, funny, kind, and strong. Even without her aura, I bet she would’ve had guys mooning after her all the damn time. But… Was her aura really that strong?

“All the time,” Meera sighed, rolling her eyes again. “I swear, you can practically smell the hormones in the air sometimes.”

“But…” I trailed off, unsure exactly how to phrase my question. “Does she… does she know?”

Lin and Meera exchanged another unreadable look.

“Not really?” Lin said, at the same time as Meera said,

“Probably, on some level.”

I looked at them, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“She’s more careful with boys,” Meera said. “Keeps her aura damped down more. Doesn’t give them as much of her personal attention.”

Lin coughed delicately. “There were one or two who… got the wrong idea and thought that she was offering them more than friendship. Things got a little awkward.”

I blinked, startled. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that someone tried it on with Glory Girl? Did they have a death wish?”

“It wasn’t quite…” Frowning, Lin broke off, pausing for a moment before taking a breath and trying again. “Physically, of course it wasn’t a problem. But emotionally…”

“Awkward’s one word for it,” Meera said, sounding a little grim. “Ugly’s a better one. Turns out that all the superpowers in the world won’t protect you from a little good old-fashioned gossip-mongering and slut-shaming.”

“Who?” I heard myself ask. My hands stung, and I was startled to realise that I’d clenched them into fists. “Who did that?”

I would smash their fucking entitled faces in. I would make them apologise to her while they crawled on their hands and knees. Every bit of emotional pain they caused her, I would inflict on them as physical torment.

“Oh, it’s over and done with now,” Lin said, laughing a little nervously. “But we’re getting a little side-tracked.”

My face flaming, I made myself stand down. It took more effort than it should have done.

“Okay,” I said cautiously.

“The point is,” Meera said, “that it’s bad enough she has to watch herself around guys. If she had to worry about girls as well…”

Second-guessing herself all the time, always having to be careful that what she did and said wasn’t misinterpreted…

“That would suck ass,” I murmured.

“Exactly,” Lin said, sounding relieved. “So we don’t tell her.”

“That’s another reason why we like to have a talk with the new people,” Meera put in. “To make sure they know from the outset that, no matter what signals they think they’re getting, they’re almost certainly wrong.”

“Victoria is very straight,” Lin said, with a sigh I had no intention of even trying to decipher.

“Technically, that’s not been proven,” Meera replied thoughtfully. “But, more to the point, she’s very devoted to Dean. I certainly don’t see that changing any time soon.”

“In any case,” Lin continued, “we care about Victoria, and we don’t want her to get hurt.”

“So whatever feelings you may or may not have, you’re going to have to deal with the fact that nothing’s ever going to come of it. And if you can handle that, great. But if you can’t?” Meera shrugged, and there was a hardness to her voice that made me pay attention; that told me she may not be a physical threat to me but that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous. “Like Lin said, Victoria’s our friend. We won’t let anyone hurt her.”

Message received loud and clear.

I drew myself up and nodded slowly.

“I like Victoria,” I said quietly. “She’s been nothing but nice to me. The last thing I’d ever want to do is hurt her. I can promise you that.” I couldn’t help the frost that leaked into my next words, but nor did I want to. Some things had to be said, and they had to be said in a way that left absolutely no room for doubt. “But you don’t need to worry about me getting any inappropriate ideas. I’m not…” Abnormal, was what I couldn’t say. A deviant. A freak. “I’m not into girls like that. And I’ll thank you not to throw around such accusations in the future.”

I’d let it go for now, but I wouldn’t be so lenient next time.

(I couldn’t afford to be.)

I wouldn’t let that shit stand.

“Oh, but it’s not-“ Lin started to say, but Meera put a hand on her shoulder, and she subsided, giving the other girl a puzzled look.

“Duly noted,” Meera said quietly.

“Good,” I said, trying to ignore the feeling of unease that just wouldn’t go away. I deliberately didn’t look at Meera’s hand on Lin’s shoulder. (I certainly didn’t wonder if they’d exchanged more… intimate touches.) “Anyway, I need to get going. See you around.”

Barely even waiting for their responses, I set off for the library, only just managing to stop myself from breaking out into a run.

Jesus fucking Christ. I should’ve known Arcadia was too good to be true; that there was bound to be a catch. And here it was.

Sure, Winslow was a wretched hive of scum and villainy, but Arcadia? Arcadia was a… a den of fucking iniquity. No pun intended.

I honestly wasn’t sure which one was worse.


	47. Atychiphobia 4.02

There was a stranger in the Wards HQ.

Not that the presence of a non-Ward came as a surprise, given that the mask-up alarm had sounded a few minutes ago, but this was someone I’d never seen before: a be-suited man in his forties with dark hair, a face mottled with fading bruises and a cast on one arm. He was standing next to the briefing screen, chatting amiably with Aegis.

(I told myself that the sudden tightness in my chest was solely due to concern that I might have been running late.)

(I wasn’t nearly as convincing as I would’ve liked.)

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should give them some privacy, but then I reasoned that they would have moved to Aegis’ office if they’d been concerned about being overheard. As I went to take a seat in the front row, Aegis looked over at me and smiled.

(I was inordinately proud of myself for managing not to flinch.)

“Good afternoon,” he said cheerfully.

“Afternoon, Sir.”

“Talos, this is Deputy Director Renick,” he continued, indicating the man he’d been speaking with.

“Nice to meet you, Talos.” If Deputy Director Renick was here to reprimand me, his smile and jovial tone didn’t give any hint of it. Not that this necessarily meant anything. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Good to meet you too, Sir,” I replied, cautiously shaking the hand he offered. Apprehension drove me to add, “Should I be worried?”

“No, not at all,” he assured me, chuckling softly. “I’ve heard good things, I promise.”

I found that hard to believe. But I returned his smile as best as I could.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Just Renick is fine,” he told me. “Or Mr Renick, if you’re feeling particularly formal.” He grinned. “Not ‘Deputy Director,’ though. That’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“Understood, Mr Renick.”

I wondered if this would get easier, addressing superiors without the honorifics that had been drilled into me my whole life. I fucking hoped so. More than that, though, I just wanted these people to start making sense. To… to act like the professionals they were supposed to be. But that thought was getting dangerously close to criticism, especially with the way my mouth had been running today, so I tried to shove it away.

“I would have popped in to say hi when you joined,” Mr Renick said, still with that same, affable demeanour, “but this is my first day back from medical leave.” He gestured unnecessarily to his cast, his eyes twinkling. “And not a moment too soon if you ask me.”

“I can understand that,” I said, sympathy making me return his smile. After my recent run-ins with PRT doctors, I could definitely understand chafing under medical restrictions.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Aegis murmured. I gave him an uncertain look, trying to figure out if that was a criticism, but he just smiled at me.

Was I supposed to smile back? Would he take it the wrong way if I did? Would he take offence if I didn’t? Shit. What the fuck should I do?

Fortunately, Mr Renick chose that moment to speak again. It was with some relief that I turned my attention back to him, noting that his expression had turned serious, something almost like sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m afraid I didn’t just come here to say hello, though. If you have time after today’s team briefing, I’d like to debrief you regarding your role in Saturday’s operation.”

“Oh,” I said, stupidly. That… made sense, I supposed. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and sooner was better. It would probably have happened already if I hadn’t spent much of the weekend in the infirmary. I’d assumed it would be conducted by Aegis, or maybe the duty officer, but maybe Mr Renick was a hands-on kind of commander. And… I needed to say something a little more useful than ‘oh.’ Cudgelling my brain into gear, I plastered what was hopefully a thoughtful expression on my face. “I have an appointment with one of the counsellors at sixteen hundred hours,” I said, “but after the briefing my schedule is clear until then.”

I’d been planning on getting some work done, but I didn’t have anything official on my calendar. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just put in a meeting request electronically. Wasn’t that what the system was for? But I supposed it was a moot point now.

“That should be plenty of time,” he said, nodding. “Aegis, may we use your office?”

“Of course,” Aegis said. “I was planning on hitting the gym before my patrol, anyway.”

“Alas, I haven’t been cleared for the gym yet,” Mr Renick said, with a mournful sigh.

“Me neither,” I found myself saying, pulling a face. Dr Hart had rescinded her approval of even ‘light exercise’ following my inglorious scuffle with Lance. Which, if you asked me, was entirely unreasonable of her, but she hadn’t really been interested in my input.

Mr Renick studied me for a moment, his piercing gaze reminding me of Ms Grant’s scrutiny. I braced myself for yet more fucking questions about my stupid bruises, but all he said was, “Frustrating, isn’t it?”

“ **Yes** , Sir,” I said, with feeling. “Uh, Mr Renick, I mean.”

He didn’t comment on my faux pas. Instead, he smiled and said, “I bet you’re wondering how I got these, aren’t you?”

Well, I had been, but… Fuck, I hoped I hadn’t been staring. He didn’t seem angry, though, so I shrugged mentally and cast caution to the winds.

“I was,” I admitted. “Were you injured in the line of duty?”

“Ah, no,” he said, his tone a little rueful. Aegis startled me by chuckling a little, but Mr Renick didn’t so much as frown. “It was actually during my downtime,” he continued. “I fell while rock climbing.”

“My sympathies,” I said. “I’ve done that before. It’s not fun.”

“Did you break any bones?”

I shook my head. “Fortunately not.” I sighed quietly to myself, an odd feeling twisting my chest as memories flickered through my mind. “Unfortunately, falling slowed me down enough that my brother caught up with me.”

“You were racing?” Mr Renick sounded interested.

“Yeah,” I said, after a moment. That was… technically true. Lance had been chasing me, anyway. “We’re… competitive.”

Dad had obviously thought I needed the extra motivation, or maybe that Lance did. I wasn’t sure which. What I had been certain of was that I’d sure as shit regretted letting myself get caught. Fuck, thinking about that was making my new bruises twinge. Cursing my body’s weakness, I ignored its stupid mithering.

I just hoped it wouldn’t fucking fail me next time.

“Competition’s all well and good,” Mr Renick said, “but safety first. More haste less speed, and all that.” His expression turned rueful. “Although, maybe I’m not the best person to be offering advice on that score.”

“Do as you say, not as you do?” Aegis asked, a teasing note in his voice.

I tensed, but the deputy director just laughed.

“Something like that,” he agreed jovially.

I tried to make myself relax again.

Aegis, his attention apparently focused on Mr Renick — or so I gathered with a quick, surreptitious check — shifted a little in place. In a strangely diffident tone, he said, “So, I meant to ask this before, but while you’re here, did you want to conduct today’s team briefing?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll just rest my aching bones and watch.” As he spoke, Mr Renick settled into a seat on the front row, grinning up at Aegis. “You carry on as planned.”

“No pressure, then,” Aegis sighed, and I thought… I couldn’t be certain, but I thought he seemed a little… apprehensive? I could understand that, I supposed. Mr Renick was his superior. It made sense that he’d be worried about fucking up in front of him. Although it made me feel… weird… to think about my superior being… nervous.

(Not that they could do much to him, seeing as he was a fucking brute.)

(I wondered uneasily if he was the kind of person who would take it out on his subordinates if they tried.)

In any event, the arrival of my teammates thankfully saved me from dwelling on such uncomfortable thoughts.

Or other uncomfortable thoughts.

_Fuck you, Amy,_ I thought angrily. _Just… fuck you. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about._

(At least, I really hoped she didn’t.)

My skin prickled lightly with goose-pimples and I suppressed a frown.

_Must be a chill in the air._

* * * * *

“Alright,” Mr Renick said briskly. “I think that’s just about everything. Can you please look over the report and make sure there’s nothing we’ve missed?”

(The ghost of citrus-cobalt effervescence tripped lightly over scorched nerve-endings, lingering only long enough for my stomach to twist with sickly anticipation before fading back into memory.)

He turned the monitor towards me, pushing the mouse across the desk so that I could page through the displayed information.

(My breath caught a little as I shifted position, a vision of materials stressed to breaking point dancing through my mind’s eye before I recognised — and dismissed — the ordinary, familiar indicators of minor surface damage.)

“Of course, Mr Renick.” I quickly read through the relevant information, and then I read through it again, just to be sure. I really couldn’t afford to fuck this up. The PRT used a write-once system for electronic AARs — once a report was filed, the information in it couldn’t be amended. (At least, that was the idea. But wondering whether there was a way for people higher up in the chain of command to get around that was probably just paranoid of me. Probably.) When I was done, I looked up again. “To the best of my knowledge, it’s both accurate and complete.”

(For a moment, I thought I caught a whiff of rich coppery sweetness mingled with the acrid smell of smoke, but by the next breath it was gone again.)

The debrief had actually been relatively quick in the end, the deputy director asking professional, concise questions that encouraged professional, concise answers. It probably helped that everyone else involved had apparently already completed their own reports. Vista had told me she’d been debriefed while I was being poked and prodded in the infirmary on Saturday night. Apparently Lieutenant Lysowski had handled it personally.

I tried not to worry about whether there were inconsistencies between my account and the others. I had been truthful, but I’d learned the hard way that truth wasn’t necessarily the shield it was supposed to be. Especially if the truth proved inconvenient for someone else. Especially if that someone else was important enough.

Still, there was no point in worrying about that now.

“Good, thank you,” Mr Renick said. He took the monitor and mouse back, and a few clicks later, the report was filed. “Any moment now, you should get an automated acknowledgement request.”

My phone buzzed.

“I think that was it,” I said. I started to reach for my phone, and then hesitated, unsure if I needed to ask for permission. “Ah, do you mind if I deal with it now?”

“Of course not,” he said. “Better to get it out of the way.”

Even though this was work-related — and even though I had explicit permission to do so — it still felt vaguely rude to be fiddling with my phone while in a meeting with a superior officer. Still, I managed to surreptitiously check the report again before appending my digital signature. Everything seemed to be in order as far as I could tell. Not that I’d really believed it wouldn’t be — not that there was much I could have done if it wasn’t — but better to be sure.

(It felt strange signing my name as Talos, rather than as Astrid Something-or-other, even if only digitally.)

“All done,” I said. My words were unnecessary as he was undoubtedly receiving an electronic acknowledgement of his own this very second, but it felt impolite not to say something.

“The wonders of modern technology,” Mr Renick said, grinning. “We haven’t quite achieved a truly paperless office yet, of course, but we’re working on it. I’m determined to get us as close to it as we can, even if certain departments who shall remain nameless are going to have to be dragged there kicking and screaming all the way.”

I thought back to Ms Grant’s office, and the several trees’ worth of papers that piled up on every available surface. I certainly couldn’t imagine her office, tiny as it was, going paperless any time soon.

(I tried not to think that I’d miss the feeling of cosiness the paper piles, along with the rest of the miscellaneous clutter, lent to the room.)

“I see,” I said politely.

“In any case,” he said, “now we’ve finished with the report, there’s something I’d like to say.” He leaned forward in his seat, his expression strangely earnest as he met my gaze. “It’s about the explosion.”

There was a sudden stab of pain through my head, and I realised I’d started reaching out with my power, or trying to. Despite the pain, though, despite the damage I risked doing to myself, despite the sheer idiocy of losing control in front of a superior, it still took an effort of will to make myself stop.

“Yes, Sir?” I practically squeaked, my heart seeming to stutter in my chest.

I’d fucked up, hadn’t I? I’d done something wrong; let my power flare out of control. I didn’t remember ripping any bonds apart, but it wasn’t like that would’ve been the first time my power had taken action without my knowledge or permission. Missy had said that kind of thing could happen if I didn’t use my power properly, and all I’d really done with it was practice and… and…

_Oh God, I… I k-_

“It wasn’t your fault, Talos.”

_Huh?_

“What?”

A distant part of my mind was yammering that I was being incredibly rude right now, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated, his voice gentle. “You didn’t cause the explosion. You didn’t make the building collapse.”

I wanted so badly to take his words at face value.

I wanted to accept the absolution he offered; to believe myself innocent.

(Of this, at least. It had been a long time since I’d decided that word didn’t apply to me. I might not have taken a life, but that didn’t mean my hands were clean. Not by a long shot.)

I wanted to believe Mr Renick more than anything. But I… I couldn’t.

“You don’t know that.” My voice emerged as a hoarse near-whisper, and I cleared my throat before continuing. “You can’t know that. The investigation is still ongoing, isn’t it? And I know I can make things explode, if I atomise enough bonds. So maybe… maybe I…”

“You didn’t,” he said, thankfully interrupting me before my speech could devolve further into incoherence. “The current working theory is that some volatile substance within the apartment ignited. It had nothing whatsoever to do with your actions.”

“But-” I began, even though I had no real idea of what I was going to follow that with.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said, for the third time. “No one believes that, there’s no evidence to even suggest it, and the one thing we do know for certain is that if you hadn’t been there, more lives would have been lost. So stop blaming yourself.”

Did… did he really mean that? Or was he just telling an agitated parahuman what they wanted to hear? Trying to keep me calm until they figured out the scale of my fuck up?

I just… I didn’t know.

“How did you know I was blaming myself?” I asked, mainly to buy myself some time to think.

He smiled then, but it seemed sad.

“Experience,” he said, simply.

I nodded silently, not knowing what to say to that. I mean, he wasn’t wrong. There was a voice in my head that kept telling me I must have done something; fucked up somehow, lost control. I hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough, good enough, and now people were dead because of it.

Because of me.

Because of my failure.

(‘You know the punishment for failure, girl.’)

But…

“Are you sure?” I asked, hating myself for my plaintive, pleading tone; for the fact that I was seeking reassurance like a child clutching for a blanket. “You really don’t think I caused the explosion?”

He sighed softly. “We won’t know for absolutely certain until the investigators have finished their work. But, based on the evidence gathered so far, I’m as sure as I can be.” He paused for a moment, pronouncing his next words like a judgement. “You didn’t cause the explosion. It wasn’t your fault.”

The way he hedged his answer should have made it less persuasive but, somehow, it didn’t. If anything, it was the opposite. So, instead of dismissing his words as mere platitudes, I actually found myself starting to… to hope.

_Maybe… Maybe there’s a chance I didn’t fuck up after all._

At least not in that way.

* * * * *

“Dean, you need to tell her.”

The sound of Dennis’ voice startled me into halting just outside the kitchen. He sounded weirdly, unnervingly serious; at least as serious as when he’d woken me from those stupid nightmares after my evaluation.

“I **know** ,” Dean said tightly, sounding positively exasperated. “I know I do. Just… not right now, okay?”

Should I leave? Should I just continue on into the kitchen as if I hadn’t heard anything? I didn’t want to barge in on what sounded like a pretty intense and private conversation, but if I just turned and left, they might hear me; they might realise I’d heard them. I didn’t have the first clue what to do, so I just stood there, paralysed by indecision, trying to tell myself that I wasn’t eavesdropping on my teammates.

Not deliberately, anyway.

“The longer you leave it, the harder it’s going to be. And if she finds out from someone else…” There was a brief pause — to my ears, an ominous one — and then, “I **really** wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

Was Dean keeping secrets from Victoria? That seemed like a recipe for disaster if ever I heard one. If it was something that was going to upset her, I could understand his reluctance to tell her about whatever-it-was but, as much as it pained me to say it, Dennis had a point.

Damnit.

_Since when is Dennis the voice of reason?_ I wondered incredulously.

“You’re… not wrong,” Dean admitted, with what sounded like reluctance, “but-”

“What are you skulking around here for, Carver?”

I absolutely did not jump half out of my skin at Hess’ voice, and I most certainly didn’t yelp. I just (whirled around, automatically shifting into a combat stance) turned around to face her in a controlled and dignified manner, looking down at her with a sneer.

“I wasn’t skulking around,” I told her, my voice only just this side of a growl. “I was on my way to the kitchen.”

“It looked like skulking to me,” she said. It sounded like she was grinning behind her mask, which didn’t surprise me one bit. What did surprise was when she actually reached up and pulled her mask off, proving that she was, in fact, grinning. Well, smirking.

“It wasn’t,” I said, letting my irritation cover my confusion. “Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. Stalker by name, stalker by nature. I swear I’m going to put a fucking bell on you one of these days.”

She made a disparaging noise. “You’d have to catch me first, bitch.”

“Now, that I’d like to see.” Dennis’ voice was back to its usual jocular tone. I shifted position so I could see him and keep an eye on Hess. He was leaning against the doorframe, looking like he was having the time of his fucking life.

I tried not to be impressed at how quickly he’d gone from sober dispenser of annoyingly sensible advice to a clown who wouldn’t know serious if it bit him on the ass.

It was easier when I remembered that I was pissed off at him.

“Get out of my way, asshole,” I told him, not even waiting to see if he’d actually move before shoving my way past him and into the kitchen.

“Rude,” he muttered. And then, a little louder, “Well, I know when I’m not wanted. See you later, Princess. Shady.”

Hess grunted. I just ignored the asshole, making a beeline for my objective.

_Oh, hallowed dispenser of coffee, save me from the twin scourges of migraine and sleep deprivation…_

Dean was standing near the kettle, holding up two different boxes of tea bags, a thoughtful look on his face. His phone was sitting on the counter in front of him. It buzzed as I approached, but he ignored it, returning one of the boxes to the cupboard.

“Hi Dean,” I said. “How are you doing?”

Considering I’d seen him at school and in the team briefing that was probably a pretty stupid question, but he smiled at me like it wasn’t. I remembered trying not to think of it as a nice smile when we’d spoken after I triggered, but… it kind of was.

“I’m fine, thank you,” he said, retrieving a tea bag from the box he’d chosen and placing it in a waiting mug. “Nothing a jolt of caffeine won’t fix. How are you?”

Hess drifted towards the fridge, apparently having followed me into the kitchen.

“The same.” On that note, I set about making my dream of coffee into a reality. As I fiddled with the machine, Dean’s phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening, and after a moment or two, he reached out and picked it up. Whatever he read there, it made irritation flicker in his eyes. He quickly tapped out a response and threw his phone down on the counter again. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said, his expression once more smooth and untroubled.

I wondered if it had anything to do with whatever it was he wasn’t telling Victoria. I mean, they’d certainly seemed friendly enough the last time I’d seen them, but…

Great. Now my cheeks were burning again.

I turned hastily away, retrieving my usual mug from its hiding place at the back of a cupboard. I kept my movements deliberately unhurried to give myself a few moments to clear my mind of thoughts of Dean and Victoria being… friendly.

To my immense disappointment, the coffee machine was still burbling and puffing away to itself when I turned back.

“It takes longer if you watch it,” Dean said.

“Says the guy watching the kettle,” I replied, amused. He shrugged, giving me a rueful grin. The movement drew my attention to the picture emblazoned across the front of his T-shirt — Armsmaster’s logo, I realised. I studied it, frowning. “You weren’t wearing that earlier,” I said, a little confused. “I didn’t think you even owned a T-shirt with a logo on.”

I’d certainly never seen him wear one. In fact, the only time I’d seen him dress in anything less than smart casual attire was in the gym. Even then, he somehow always managed to look like he’d stepped out of a commercial for expensive leisurewear.

He glanced down at the shirt, grimacing. “I wasn’t, and I don’t,” he said, his voice grim. “Some idiot ruined my shirt with a stupid prank. Fortunately, that idiot had a spare shirt I could borrow. Unfortunately, this was it.”

“I bet I know who that idiot was,” I murmured.

“That’s a fool’s bet,” he sighed, and shook his head. “The most annoying thing is that it wasn’t even aimed at me. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Chris dodged out of the way.”

I started to offer my condolences, but Hess interrupted.

“You look stupid,” she pronounced, taking a bite out of an apple she’d acquired at some point.

Dean shot her a narrow-eyed look.

“Thanks for the input, Sophia,” he drawled. “I always appreciate unsolicited sartorial advice from someone who thinks that crossbows count as fashion accessories.”

I stared at him, my eyebrows climbing upwards. Dean was certainly sarcastic enough with me on occasion, and I’d noticed him being snippy with Dennis, but I’d never heard him take that sharp tone with Hess. Not that it particularly seemed to bother her. She just sneered silently and finished off her apple, carelessly throwing the core onto the counter as she turned to stare at me.

“What?” I demanded, glowering at her.

“You really got the shit beaten out of you,” she said, shrugging lazily.

“You should see the other guy,” I muttered.

“You’re not trying to claim you actually won, are you?” she asked, giving me a dismissive once-over.

“No,” I said, though it just about killed me to admit it, “but I’m not the one who ended up needing stitches afterwards.”

“Really?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

I shrugged, already regretting my words.

“Just a couple,” I muttered. “Probably.”

“You really are a psycho bitch, aren’t you?” Hess murmured, and she sounded almost… approving?

_Oh, fuck this._

I had neither the patience nor the energy for her shit right now. And that discarded apple core was seriously annoying me, so I gave in and reached past her to snag it and throw it into the composting container. Doing that actually made me feel quite a bit better. Certainly enough to draw myself up and scowl down at her.

“You’re a fine one to talk about being psycho,” I sneered. “Or was it some other crossbow-wielding shadow bitch who-”

“That was before I joined the Wards,” Hess interrupted, giving me a sharp look. A warning look. “I’m careful now.”

_Tell that to Tommy Cain’s shattered kneecap,_ I thought. ‘Careful,’ was not the word I would have used for the beating she’d given him, and she’d definitely been a Ward when that went down.

Not that I blamed her for smacking the bastard around. By all accounts, he’d deserved that and more. Not that Lance’s friends saw it that way, of course, but then they wouldn’t. Nazi assholes stuck together, after all. It was pretty clear she didn’t want to talk about this in front of Dean, though, and for the moment I was willing to humour her.

So I just shrugged and said, “Whatever you say, Hess.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, but before she could say anything, Dean called out, “Looks like the coffee’s ready.

“Thanks,” I said, my mood improving considerably as I went to pour myself a mugful.

Dean’s teabag was already steeping. I guessed the kettle must have boiled while I’d been distracted. And, speaking of being distracted, he was fiddling with his phone again, and he didn’t look happy.

I briefly thought about asking what was wrong, but I didn’t want to pry. Anyway, I’d already asked once, and he hadn’t seemed to want to talk about it.

“Good luck with console duty,” I said.

“Thanks,” he replied absently, not looking up.

I checked my watch as I picked up my coffee and headed for the door. Plenty of time to get some work done before I had to head off for my appointment with the counsellor.

_Fuck knows I’ve got plenty of it to do._

* * * * *

Hess followed me out of the kitchen. I didn’t really think much of it at first — it wasn’t like she tended to hang around with other Wards if she could help it. However, when she followed me all the way to the living quarters, I stopped and raised my eyebrows at her.

“Living up to your name again, Stalker?”

“We need to talk,” she said flatly.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” I told her. “And I have work to do.”

“It won’t take long,” she said dismissively, heading for my room. “Anyway, it’s not like you can keep me out.”

I hurried to overtake her, just about managing not to grind my teeth as I unlocked the shiny new lock on my door.

“Pushy bitch,” I muttered.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said airily.

I rolled my eyes, and preceded her into my room, only just resisting the urge to slam the door in her face.

“Come in, then,” I said shortly. “Don’t make yourself at home. You’ve got five minutes, and that’s only because I’m curious.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered, smirking.

I forbore to comment.

While part of me was tempted to remain standing for the height advantage, I took the desk chair instead. It gave me a different kind of advantage; sending the message that this was my space and she was the interloper, here by my permission.

If only the bitch hadn’t been too busy poking at my stuff to pay attention.

_If my power wasn’t fucked at the moment, I would make her regret that…_

I made a mental note to smack her extra hard next time we sparred.

“Talk,” I said impatiently. “And make it snappy. I don’t have the time for your shit right now.”

Wonder of wonders, she actually stopped pawing at my possessions. Unfortunately, that was only so she could lean against my dresser. I tried not to wince as it creaked in protest. From the way she smirked, I obviously wasn’t as successful as I would’ve liked. The smirk faded quickly, though, her expression turning serious.

“Did your nazi friends tell you about my good work keeping them and the other gangs in check?” she asked.

“They’re not my fucking friends,” I said sharply, and then made myself stop and take a breath. If there was one thing I’d learned about tangling with Hess, it was the importance of keeping my cool. “But I do know people who know things,” I continued, in a more measured tone. “And your name might have come up once or twice.” I paused again, studying her. “Why?”

She didn’t answer right away. Considering her words, hesitating, or just being a bitch? Strange though it seemed, I actually thought it might have been the second option.

“The PRT doesn’t know every little detail about the things I do,” she said flatly. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Is that so?” I murmured.

I had so many questions right now, but my instincts told me that interrogating Hess wouldn’t get me any answers. So I stayed silent and took a measured sip of my coffee, letting the silence stretch.

She made a frustrated noise, and pushed off the dresser, pacing restlessly around my room.

“They don’t want us to do anything useful,” she spat. “If they had their way, all we’d ever do is smile and sign autographs. And even when they do let us off the leash, they hem us in with rules and regulations and protocols, going on and on about reasonable force and due process and all that crap.”

“Rules are necessary,” I said mildly, when she broke off. “Without them, there would be nothing but chaos.”

She gave me a black look.

“Of course **you’d** say that. You’re such a fucking teacher’s pet. But see if you feel that way when they get on your case for scaring civilians, or giving some criminal a well-deserved beating,” she said. “Trust me, you’ll come around.”

“We’ll see,” I said noncommittally. “So, is this the part where you ask me to keep quiet about what you do in your downtime?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, her tone rather more abrasive than was traditional for someone asking a favour. “You keep your mouth shut, and I won’t tell anyone about your brother’s Empire friends. Sound good?”

I took another sip of coffee, pretending that I was thinking it over. In actuality, I didn’t need to think about it at all. I’d made my decision before she’d even finished speaking.

“No.”

“What?” she barked. Her confused anger perked me up even more than the coffee had.

“No deal,” I said, my tone perfectly level. “Too many people already know about my brother’s poor decisions. Tell whoever you want. Your offer’s worth fuck all to me.”

“So, what, you’re going to rat me out?” Her lip curled in a sneer. “Didn’t figure you for a snitch, Carver. Or maybe you’re even more of a kiss-ass than I thought.”

“Just keep talking, bitch,” I growled before I could stop myself. “I’ll make you eat those words.” But this wasn’t where I wanted to go right now, so I made myself dial it back a little to say, “But if you actually listened instead of running your big mouth, you’d realise that wasn’t what I actually said.” I let my lips curve up in what was technically a smile as I set my coffee cup down on a coaster. “This is a negotiation, Hess. Try to keep up.”

I was half-expecting her to lash out at me, either verbally or physically. Instead, though, she stayed still and silent, her expression closed off.

“What do you want, then?” she asked cautiously.

“A favour,” I said, simply.

“What kind of favour?”

I rolled my eyes. “If I knew **that** , I’d ask for it directly. But I don’t need anything from you right now, so you can just owe me one.”

Her face twisted into a scowl, her hands twitching like she wanted to clench them into fists. Or maybe go for a crossbow.

“So you can drag this out indefinitely? Hold it over my head? That’s bullshit.”

“That’s the deal,” I said, shrugging. “Take it or leave it.”

She glared at me like she was trying to make my head explode by force of will alone.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll make you regret it,” she growled.

I got to my feet, crossing the short distance towards her at a slow, leisurely pace.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” I said softly, letting my lips peel back in a feral smile. “You don’t scare me, little girl.” I held her gaze for a long moment, and then shrugged. “It’s just one favour. What are you so afraid of? Worried I’ll ask you for something that would go against your conscience?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffed. “I just don’t trust you not to go running to Aegis the first chance you get.”

“I’m not a fucking snitch, Sophia,” I said, only managing to keep my voice soft because I knew that would piss her off more. “But keep talking and I might make an exception. Just for you.”

She glared at me. I met her gaze with my closest approximation of calm serenity.

“One reasonable favour,” she ground out.

“One favour,” I agreed.

“How do I know you’ll keep up your end of the deal?” she asked.

“You don’t, I suppose,” I said, shrugging. “But that’s not my problem.” On that note, I deliberately turned my back on her and went to sit back down at my desk. My skin crawled the whole way, even with the carefully positioned mirror that let me keep an eye on my unwelcome guest. “If that’s all, get the fuck out of my room. I’ve got shit to do and you’ve already wasted too much of my time.”

She stayed where she was. Her reflection in the mirror showed me that her hands and her jaw were clenched tight. I was honestly surprised she hadn’t taken a swing at me yet. (I was almost disappointed the bitch hadn’t given me an excuse. But if she thought I was going to break first, she had another fucking think coming. I wouldn’t let her crack my control a second time.)

“I’ve got something to trade,” she said.

I turned my chair back to face her, picking up my mug again.

“Go on.”

“I can help you get through your psychological evaluation without getting yourself benched,” she said.

“You really think I’d need help from you?” I sneered.

She smirked back at me, her sudden confidence telling me I hadn’t done that great a job concealing my doubts.

“You’re twitchy as fuck right now,” she said. “And you’re hilariously easy to provoke. So yeah, I do.”

“I am not twitchy,” I snapped. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Sure,” she drawled lazily. “Whatever you say.” She leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. “So? Do you want my advice? Or are you happy to rely on your…” Her smirk broadened as she paused for a beat or two. “…wits?”

I thought about it. For all of two seconds.

“Fuck off, bitch,” I spat. “No deal.”

I could handle it. I didn’t need her condescending so-called advice. Anyway, what the fuck did she know about acting like a sane and rational human being? She was an undisciplined, insubordinate barbarian.

There **was** a psycho bitch in this room, but it sure as shit wasn’t me.

Her smirk disappeared as if it had never existed, her expression turning hard.

“Tough shit,” she ground out. “Because that’s the only favour I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

I thought about it again, weighing my options. Was I really going to rat Hess out because she played a little rough with some gang members? Despise her for her lack of control, sure, but turn her in? It didn’t sit right with me. Not at this point, anyway. But I wasn’t just going to capitulate. What I needed was a compromise.

“I’ll hear you out,” I said. “If I think your pearls of wisdom are worth my silence, I’ll consider your debt paid. If not…” I shrugged. “You’ll still owe me.”

“No,” she said vehemently. “This makes us even.”

“I guess we’ll see,” I murmured. I made a ‘get on with it’ gesture. “Go on then. Show me what you’ve got, Hess.”

She glared at me a moment longer, and then plonked her ass down on my bed. I clenched my jaw on my instinctive protest. The bitch was just doing it to wind me up, and I absolutely refused to give her the satisfaction. Next time we sparred, though, I was definitely going to take it out of her hide.

“Who are you seeing?” she asked, her tone surprisingly businesslike.

“Dr Linda Mayhew,” I said.

“Not ideal,” Hess said, pulling a face. “Mayhew’s one of the new ones. She still thinks she’s here to fix us.”

I blinked.

“I thought the point of the counsellors were to make sure we were fit for duty,” I said, cautiously.

“Yeah, of course,” she said, shrugging. “But they don’t all get the memo. Some of them think they’re actually here to help us wrestle our inner demons into submission, or whatever. It’s okay, though. I can get you through this.” She took a breath. “The most important thing to remember is, you don’t have to tell them shit.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” I blurted out. “Director Piggot ordered me to cooperate. Noncompliance doesn’t seem to be an option.”

“You’re such a fucking rule-follower,” she sneered.

“Better than being a rebel without a clue,” I sneered back.

Instead of getting riled up, though, she just shook her head in a vaguely pitying manner.

“And this is why you need my help,” she said. “The thing Piggy probably didn’t tell you is that client confidentiality is a pretty big deal. Anything you tell a counsellor can only be shared with one of the other counsellors. That’s it.”

“Yeah, but…” I frowned, struggling to make sense of this. “They report on us to our superiors, right?”

“Their conclusions, yeah, but not the details of what we say.”

“I never figured you for the trusting sort,” I said. The fact that she actually seemed to believe in this so-called confidentiality honestly came a shock to me.

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s not about trust,” she said impatiently. “It’s about self-interest. The PRT’s self-interest. If they broke that confidentiality and it got out — which it would, eventually — then the whole counselling programme would be completely fucked.”

“Sounds like it’s fucked anyway if everyone’s gaming the system the way you’re talking about,” I said.

“Maybe,” she said, shrugging. “But it’s fucked in a way that lets the whole thing keep trundling along. They get to tick the box that says they’re providing for their capes’ emotional needs, or whatever. And if any of their capes actually are pathetic enough that they’d have a meltdown if they didn’t talk about their shit, then they can talk without worrying that the counsellors are going to tell tales on them.”

That… did make a kind of sense, I guessed.

“But they can still tell the director if they think I’m being uncooperative. Right?”

“Sure. If you’re actually worried about that.” The disdainful expression on her face made it perfectly clear what she thought about that concern.

“And if I am?” I asked, my glare challenging her to make something of it.

“Then the trick is to not tell them shit without letting them realise you’re not telling them shit,” she said impatiently. “Lie your ass off if you have to.”

“I’m… not great at lying,” I admitted.

“Then keep your mouth shut as much as you can. Don’t volunteer information, and keep whatever you do say as close to the truth as possible, within reason.”

“I can do that, I guess,” I muttered. Assuming I was willing to flat out disobey the director, which I wasn’t entirely sure that I was.

Hess gave me a long, searching look, and then huffed out a frustrated-sounding sigh.

“Look,” she said. “Despite what I said, when it comes down to it, the PRT doesn’t actually want to bench you. They don’t want to bench any of us, not really. They might tie us up in more red tape than you can shake a shitty stick at, but they need us out there on the streets. So, if you are determined to play the girl scout, just make sure you don’t give them a reason not to clear you. That’s it.”

“It’s really that simple?” I asked cautiously.

“Pretty much.” She shrugged. “Of course, if you ask me, it would be better if you just didn’t tell them shit.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t ask you,” I muttered. I looked at her for a long moment, turning her words over in my mind. “And you’re not off the hook for that favour, either.”

“Like fuck I’m not,” she spat, leaping to her feet.

I shrugged. “You said it yourself, I’d have to give them an excuse to bench me. That means your advice is worth fuck all, just like your first offer. So you still owe me.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” she said, turning and stalking towards the door.

“I’ll take that as an agreement,” I called after her. Her only answer was to fling the door open wide, striding through. Her coat swirled around her in a way that would probably have been quite dramatic if it hadn’t caught on the door handle and jerked her up short. I was just drawing breath to say something suitably scathing about her not-so-smooth exit, but before I could get the words out, she dissolved into smoke and vanished out of sight.

“Fucking drama queen,” I muttered, and then, louder, “Would it have killed you to shut the fucking door?”

There was, of course, no reply.

* * * * *

_Okay,_ I mused, as I made my way back to the Wards HQ. _That… wasn’t actually as bad as I was expecting._

I honestly wasn’t sure whether or not Hess’ advice had made any difference — and the bitch still owed me a favour either way — but, all in all, I thought it had gone… okay. Dr Mayhew hadn’t been too pushy, and she hadn’t seemed to be displeased with my answers. I wondered what she’d say about me in her report. I hoped it would be favourable.

But it was out of my hands now, so there was no point in stressing about it. Not that the pointlessness of fretting and second-guessing myself would necessarily stop me doing it, of course. Luckily, I had plenty of work to use as a distraction.

And… now I was worrying about all the work I had to do. But that was okay. That, I could and would do something about.

(There were still several hours to go before Aegis would return from patrol, so I could use one of the computers in the shared office without having to worry about him walking in on me.)

(Not that I was worried.)

Apropos of nothing, I found myself thinking, _Amy doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about._

It seemed to have become a mantra.

* * * *

“Let me guess: you’re making more coffee?”

I froze.

For a horrible moment, I couldn’t even breathe, but then I wrested back control of my recalcitrant body and closed the notebook I’d been reading while I waited for the coffee to finish brewing, turning to face my team leader with what I hoped was a blandly pleasant expression.

“Yes, Sir,” I said politely, wondering uneasily if that was a problem. “I didn’t realise you’d returned from your patrol already.”

I thought I’d allowed myself plenty of time to decamp from the shared office to my room. I’d figured I could easily afford to take a few minutes to put on a fresh pot of coffee. Apparently I’d been wrong.

He moved into the kitchen and it took every ounce of my willpower not to back away from him. Not that there was really anywhere for me to go. He was between me and the exit.

“The advantage of having two fliers on at the same time,” he said, smiling. “It makes us a pretty mobile team.”

_Oh. Right._

I hadn’t thought about that. Rookie mistake.

“I see, Sir,” I said.

His smile faded a little, and I didn’t know why. Had I done something wrong? I’d barely even said anything. Unless that was the problem.

Fuck. I needed to get it together. I was being ridiculous.

_Amy doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about,_ I reminded myself.

It didn’t help as much as I would’ve hoped.

“So, I’m back to being Sir even when we’re off-duty?” he asked, in a weirdly soft voice that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The kitchen seemed awfully small all of a sudden. “I thought we’d moved past that.”

“Sorry,” I said, after a moment. “Habit.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” he said, and I couldn’t even begin to interpret his expression. “I just… I don’t know.” He sighed softly. “I hoped you were starting to feel a little more comfortable around me, that’s all.”

His words seemed to hang ominously in the air as I tried to figure out what the fuck he meant by that. Why would he want me to feel comfortable? Whatever the fuck that meant. What did it matter, as long as I was appropriately respectful and obeyed his orders?

“Why?” I heard myself ask, cringing inside at the blatantly suspicious note in my voice. “I don’t mean to be rude,” I hastened to add.

He didn’t answer right away, just looking at me with that indecipherable expression.

“I didn’t think you were being rude,” he said. “But… I’m not really sure how to answer that.”

“Just forget I said anything, then.” I tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “It’s not important.” I took a breath and made myself turn away to check the coffee machine, forcing a lightness to my tone that I really didn’t feel. “I think the coffee’s nearly done. Did you want some? There’s plenty.”

“Oh. Yes, please,” he said, and I wasn’t certain, but I thought he sounded off-balance. “That’s actually what I came here for.” I glanced back at him, and he gave me a rueful grin, although to my eyes the expression seemed a little… off, somehow. “It helps the paperwork go faster, even if the caffeine doesn’t do much for me these days.”

(In a part of my mind that wasn’t practically buzzing with hyper-alertness, I made a note of that fact, wondering if that meant his adaptive physiology coped with toxins the same way it apparently dealt with physical trauma.)

“Did you have an eventful patrol, then?” I asked, grateful for the change of subject.

“Not really,” he said, frowning thoughtfully. “Some minor vandalism, that’s all. Kids defacing a shop front with racist slurs.”

Did that kind of thing really fall under the Wards’ jurisdiction? Then again, Carlos and Dennis had intervened in a bar fight last week. In fact, come to think of it, the closest I’d heard of any of my teammates getting to any real action was when those Empire thugs went on their little firebombing spree in ABB territory. And, despite Missy’s objections, Carlos had chosen not to intervene in that case.

If this really was the usual order of business for Wards patrols, it was honestly a little disappointing.

“Did you catch them?” I asked,

“Unfortunately not.” He sounded annoyed, and more than a little disgusted. I wondered uneasily if I’d made a mistake asking questions. He shook his head. “I really didn’t expect to see that kind of thing in the commercial district.”

“I guess some of those nazi motherfuckers are feeling a bit more confident after the recent kerfuffle,” I offered.

It was pretty stupid of them though. If they stuck to the poorer areas, no one would give a shit. But if they started inconveniencing richer folks, the so-called heroes might just muster up the will to start taking the fight to them. I mean, one instance of vandalism didn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, but if it was the start of a trend…

Not for the first time, I wondered what had put a hair up the Empire’s ass.

(Not for the first time, I worried that it might have had something to do with my father.)

The unexpected sound of Carlos chuckling startled me out of my thoughts. I studied him, wondering what was funny.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use the words ‘motherfucker’ and ‘kerfuffle’ in the same sentence before,” he said, smiling at me. “Come to think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone actually use the word ‘kerfuffle’ at all. Maybe Dennis, but he’s always been strange.”

“I guess I just have a weird vocabulary,” I muttered, trying not to feel offended by the criticism, or at least not to show it. The way Carlos’ face fell told me I’d been less than successful.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to be mean. There’s nothing wrong with the way you speak. It’s a little unusual sometimes, but that’s not a bad thing. Really.”

His words almost tripped over each other, and if he wasn’t my superior, I might have been tempted to think that he was babbling. This was… exceedingly weird. I didn’t know what do.

“You don’t need to apologise,” I said carefully. “I’m not offended,” I lied. I really didn’t like the way he was looking at me. It made me feel… antsy. It was all I could do not to flinch when he took a step towards me.

“Astrid, is something wrong? Have I done something to upset you?” He smiled, but it seemed like an unhappy smile. “You can tell me. I promise I won’t be offended.”

For a moment, I was paralysed with indecision, but then I managed to force myself to give him a puzzled smile and say, “Of course you haven’t upset me, Carlos. I’m fine.”

I very carefully didn’t ask why he thought I might have been upset. I was afraid that he’d tell me.

Hellfire and damnation. Apparently Hess hadn’t been entirely wrong. I really was ‘twitchy as fuck’ right now, at least around Carlos.

_Damn you, Amy,_ I thought viciously. _You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about._

“You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” he asked, sounding less than convinced. I cursed my piss-poor deception skills.

“I’m sure,” I said, infusing the words with all the sincerity I could muster, casting around for a distraction. “Oh, I think the coffee’s done.”

Thank fuck.

Carlos still looked like he didn’t believe that there was nothing wrong, but to my eternal gratitude, he apparently decided to let the subject go.

“I’ll get a mug,” was all he said.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I poured the coffee, exceedingly conscious of Carlos’ scrutiny. Was he watching to see if I’d fuck up? Or was it… something else? I belatedly remembered that Carlos took cream and sugar in his coffee, and cursed internally as I realised I’d have to manoeuvre past him to get to the fridge.

“Excuse me,” I said awkwardly.

“Right. Of course,” he said, moving out of the way. Okay. I knew why I was feeling on edge right now, but what was up with Carlos? Why did he seem so ill at ease all of a sudden? “I should have got that,” he blurted out suddenly, as I retrieved the cream. “Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“That’s okay,” I said, feeling completely out of my depth. “It’s not like I had to go far.”

“I suppose not,” he said. A few moments later, as I carefully poured what I hoped was the right amount of cream into his mug, he added, “I can’t believe I’m just standing here watching you make coffee for me. You must think I’m so lazy.”

(‘They’re all lazy,’ I heard Dad’s voice say.)

“No, of course not,” I said hastily, wondering if this was a trap. “I don’t mind. Really.” I quickly added his customary two spoonfuls of sugar and stirred them in. Taking a deep breath, I picked up the mug and handed it over. “There you go. I hope it’s okay.”

I didn’t look as he took a sip, returning the cream to the fridge and washing up the spoons.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” he said. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I’d been holding.

“You’re welcome.” I actually managed to scrape up what I hoped was a reasonably passable smile. I tucked my notebook under one arm and picked up my own coffee. “I’m going to get back to work. Good luck with your report.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He sounded strangely… distracted, his expression deeply troubled. Under other circumstances, I might have asked if he was okay, but the need to get out of there — to get safely back to my room and lock the door behind me — was almost overwhelming. I turned around and strode briskly to the door. It was cowardly to flee like this, I knew, but I didn’t give a shit. I could despise myself for it later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was- “Astrid, wait.”

_Fuck._

I’d stopped in my tracks almost before I registered the order. Now I took a breath, doing my level best to keep my expression controlled and my voice neutral as I turned and said, “Yes, Sir?”

For some reason, Carlos winced.

“Will you come and sit down? I’d like to talk to you.”

“Of course,” I said, even as apprehension twisted my stomach in knots. It felt like I was moving on autopilot as I walked to the kitchen table and sat down, setting my notebook and coffee mug to one side. I’d taken the chair closest to the door — Carlos hadn’t told me to sit anywhere in particular, after all — but, to my dismay, rather than taking the seat nearest to him, he moved around the table to sit down next to me. “What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away, downing what looked like half of his coffee in one go before putting his mug down on the table. Distantly, I mourned the fact that I hadn’t even tasted my own coffee yet. I hoped it didn’t go cold before he let me go.

“I think I know what this is about,” he said, sounding strangely hesitant.

My heart lurched in my chest, and the air in here seemed thin all of a sudden. I forced the panic down, refusing to give into my body’s stupid demands to gasp for oxygen, keeping my breaths even and regular.

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

He shook his head.

“You know, it’s kind of freaky when you do that,” he muttered.

“Do what?” I asked, refusing to let myself cringe at the criticism. I wouldn’t be that fucking pathetic. I was determined to have some goddamn dignity.

“Just…” he gestured vaguely, looking like he was searching for words. “Your expression turns blank and you go really, really still. It’s like you just… shut down.”

My hands wanted to shake. I wouldn’t let them.

_Control,_ I told myself sternly.

“I’m not sure what to say to that,” I said, unable to think of anything better.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He took a deep, audible breath, rolling his shoulders as if they were tense. (I tried not to think about how much bigger than me he was; how much stronger. I tried not to think about the fact that I couldn’t use my power right now. I definitely tried not to think about the fact that even without all that, he was still my commanding officer.) “I know you said I haven’t done anything to upset you,” he said, speaking very carefully. “But… you were starting to relax around me, a little. And now you’re back to the way you were when I first met you.”

A chill went through me, and my body would have betrayed me by shivering if I hadn’t stopped it.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said. “I hope I haven’t seemed disrespectful in some way.”

“No, of course not,” he said swiftly, sounding almost distressed. He ran a hand through his hair, rolled his shoulders again and leaned forward a little in his seat, an earnest expression on his face. “Astrid, I’m sorry I ordered you around yesterday. I normally wouldn’t, but… you were hurt, and I was worried. I just wanted to know who’d hit you. And to make sure that you got proper medical attention. Because, you know, you don’t always take care of yourself properly, so I wasn’t sure you’d go to the infirmary unless someone actually made you.” He paused; took a breath. “Unless **I** made you,” he said softly. “I was just trying to do what was best for you. I certainly never meant to… scare you, or upset you in any way. And if I did, then I’m sorry.”

I stared at him, completely nonplussed.

I just… I had absolutely no clue what to say to that.

I was pissed off with Dennis for running and snitching to Carlos, yes, but I wasn’t angry with Carlos himself. Why would I be? He hadn’t done anything wrong. (And even if he had, what was the point in getting pissed off with him? It wasn’t like I could do anything about it, not without consequences. He was my commanding officer.)

But the silence was stretching uncomfortably, and I had to say **something** , so I went with what seemed to be the safest option.

“You haven’t upset me,” I said, trying not to betray even the slightest hint of irritation as I continued with, “And you certainly haven’t scared me.” I should have left it there, but I was so confused, and frustrated, and… and… I didn’t even know what else, that I couldn’t help adding, “I’m not sure I understand, though. Why do you think I’d be bothered by you giving me an order?”

It was apparently his turn to stare now, and the flummoxed expression on his face made me wonder if I’d slurred my words.

It felt like the silence lasted a lifetime, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds until he shook himself and said, “It… kind of feels like… taking advantage, to push your buttons like that. Even if I was only doing it to try to help.”

Was he serious? Or was he just playing with me? Was this some kind of test?

“But you’re my commanding officer,” I said, and even to my own ears, I sounded lost. “I’m your subordinate. You’re supposed to give me orders. That’s how the chain of command works.”

Carlos rubbed his eyes, screwing up his face as if he was in pain.

“Christ almighty,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“Have I done something wrong?” I asked, trying to ignore pain lancing through my head, pulsing in time with the pounding of my heart.

“No, Astrid,” he said, dropping his hand from his face and leaning forward a little in his seat. “It’s…” He trailed off, frowned, closed his eyes briefly, and tried again. “Miss Militia told me I should try to maintain distance, to keep things… formal between us, but I just don’t think I can.”

I froze.

No.

No, fuck, no.

**Please** no.

He couldn’t be saying what I thought he was saying. He **couldn’t**.

_Amy doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about,_ I told myself for the umpteenth time, but on this occasion the mantra rang hollow.

“What do you mean?” My voice was hoarse; barely louder than a whisper.

“Well,” he began, and his own voice sounded a little rough around the edges. He cleared his throat and tried again. Instead of thinking of me as a commander, do you think you could maybe… consider me a friend?”

“A friend?” I echoed, stupidly.

“Yes.” He smiled at me, and the expression looked hopeful. “Would that really be so bad?”

Would it…?

I looked at him, nausea shivering though me as I considered the unlikely possibility that Amy might have been… not entirely wrong.

_He doesn’t seem… cruel,_ I thought. Not like some of Dad’s men, when I’d heard them talking about… things like that.

(Against my will, I found myself remembering some of the things they’d said to me, when Dad had enlisted their help to try to make me trigger.)

(I felt like I was going to throw up.)

But I still didn’t… I couldn’t…

If I agreed to… friendship… was that all I would be agreeing to? Or would he want — would he expect — something more?

This was stupid. I knew it was stupid. But, even so, I just… I had to know, one way or the other. I had to be sure.

It took a couple of attempts before I could actually speak.

“May I ask a question?”

His smile faded.

“Of course you can,” he told me. “You can always ask.”

“The jewellery set you gave me for my birthday. Did it… mean anything?”

“Huh?” He looked at me like I’d just started speaking in tongues. “Like what?”

Was he really going to make me say it?

But… maybe that was for the best. At least that way, there would be no room for misunderstandings.

I swallowed to try to clear the lump from my throat. It didn’t really help.

“Someone at school said that when a guy gives a girl jewellery, it means he wants to fuck her,” I said, and immediately flushed bright red.

_Okay,_ I thought miserably. _Maybe I shouldn’t have phrased it quite that bluntly._

But I’d said it now. Which meant the ball was in Carlos’ court. All I could do was wait to see what he said in response.

Carlos’ jaw went slack, his eyes popping wide open as he stared at me with what looked like total shock. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing. Then again, he could probably adapt to shit like that. Just as I started to wonder if I was going to have to prod him or something, he shook himself, his jaw working soundlessly for a few moments before he swallowed audibly.

“What did you say?” he asked, his voice faint and thready.

I winced internally, but obediently started to repeat myself.

“I said, someone at school said that when a guy-”

“No, actually, that’s okay,” he broke in. “I don’t… I don’t really need to hear it again.”

I felt a muted pulse of relief at being spared that particular indignity. He still didn’t answer the question, though, and as time ticked inexorably by, the anxiety built within me until I just had to speak again.

“So… did it… mean something?”

“ **God** , no,” he burst out. “Absolutely not. That’s the last thing I’d… No. No way.” A whole array of expressions chased themselves across his face as he spoke. Shock, horror, disbelief, revulsion…

_Oh, of course,_ I thought, and even through the sudden, dizzying rush of relief, now I wanted to cringe for whole other reasons.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my face burning even more as I tried not to huddle in on myself. “Of course you didn’t. I knew that. I’m not really so arrogant as to think that… I mean, I know I’m not… desirable. But she seemed so certain, so I wanted to make sure… But I didn’t really believe it, and-”

“Astrid, please stop,” he said, thankfully cutting off my babbling when I couldn’t seem to make myself stop fucking talking of my own accord. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, looking absolutely appalled for some reason. “I’m sure you’re very… desirable. To other people. You’re just… really not my type.”

I nodded, feeling like a complete fool.

“I understand, but you don’t have to worry about… assuaging my pride, or anything like that. I know what I look like. I just… Can we please just not talk about this any more? I’m feeling pretty fucking mortified right now.”

“You don’t need to,” he lied awkwardly. “Misunderstandings happen. It’s okay. I don’t think badly of you. Really. But…” He looked away for a moment, and when he looked back, he seemed kind of… uncertain. “I should probably have mentioned this before, but…” He swallowed audibly and gave me an anxious, embarrassed kind of smile. “You’d think this would get easier,” he muttered, but I didn’t think that was aimed at me. He took a deep breath, and met my gaze. “I’m… I don’t like girls that way. I’m… gay.”

What?

He… what?

Had I misheard him?

“What?” I said.

“I’m gay,” he said. “I have a boyfriend.”

I… huh.

_I guess I did hear him correctly._

That was..

I mentally shook myself, trying to kick my brain into gear so I could process what I’d just heard.

He was… Carlos was…

The first thing I felt was relief; a powerful, breathtaking, overwhelming flood of it. He wouldn’t… He was never going to want… that… from me. Not ever. When that ebbed, though, I felt the full force of the disgust that welled up behind it. My commanding officer was abnormal. The same way that Meera and Lin probably were. The same way they’d accused me of being. Behind that, though, was confusion, because I didn’t… He didn’t…

“But you don’t look like a-”

_Fuck!_

Horrified, I broke off before I could finish that sentence, but it was too late. Carlos was looking at me, and now he seemed… angry.

No, he seemed absolutely fucking furious.

“Like a **what**?” He spoke in a low voice, almost a growl, and he’d gone absolutely rigid, the muscles of his arms standing out in sharp relief.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I just meant I didn’t know, that’s all.”

He was out of his seat in an explosive motion, and I flinched before I could stop myself, tensing in anticipation of the inevitable impact. It took me a moment to register that the blow hadn’t come, that he was just… standing there.

I looked up at him, almost flinching again at the anger in his eyes.

“What were you going to say, Astrid?” he ground out.

“N- Nothing,” I said, hating myself for stuttering; for being so fucking pathetic.

_It’s just pain,_ I told myself. _I can handle pain. And at least now I’ll know how bad it will be._

(And maybe afterwards, when I knew, I’d finally stop being so fucking twitchy around him.)

“Do I have to order you to tell me?”

I made myself sit up straight, willing my voice not to quaver when I spoke.

“Are you, Sir?”

He stared at me for what felt like a lifetime, so tense he was practically vibrating in place. And then, just when I was about ready to scream from the tension, he abruptly strode past me. I flinched again, pathetically, and I flinched a third time at the sharp sound of a hand smacking against a solid object. He’d hit the table, I thought, belatedly. Just… slammed his hand against it, I guessed.

I made myself get to my feet and turn to face him. The room seemed to sway as I got to my feet, but I ignored it as best as I could, standing to attention.

I needn’t have bothered. Carlos was facing away from me, towards the door. I waited with my heart in my mouth, wondering what he was going to do to me; how badly he was going to damage me.

_I hope I don’t end up with more fucking fractures…_

It took me a moment to realise that he was walking away.

I stared in disbelief, not quite able to process what was happening.

Or, rather, what wasn’t.

Before I could make myself say something — before I could even figure out what I should say — he paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder but not quite looking at me.

“I’m too angry to deal with this right now,” he said, his voice a low, ominous rumble. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Later? When the fuck was later? Later tonight? Later in the week? When?

“Yes, Sir,” I said quietly.

He left without saying another word.

_I… I guess it’s a good thing he’s going to wait until he’s sure he can control his strength,_ I thought numbly.

My knees wanted to give way, but I wouldn’t let them. I would be damned if I would let my body betray me like that. I needed to keep my shit together. I picked up my coffee, but now even the thought of drinking it turned my stomach. I hesitated a moment, and then poured it back in the pot — I hadn’t even so much as taken a sip, and the mug had been clean. There was no point in wasting it. I glanced over at Carlos’ half-finished mug, and decided to leave it there in case he came back for it.

(I had to take a moment to stop my hands from shaking.)

I did put a coaster under it, because leaving it sitting on the bare wood would have just bugged me. Finally,I quickly washed and dried my mug, putting it back in its hiding place at the back of the cupboard. Then, and only then, did I allow myself to pick up my notebook and go back to my room.

Locking the door behind me, I crossed the short distance to my desk and calmly down in the chair, carefully setting my notebook down before me.

That, of course, was when the shakes hit.


	48. Atychiphobia 4.03

The first thing I noticed when I surfaced from my stupid, pathetic little breakdown, or whatever, was that my jaw hurt. The next thing was the realisation that my first observation probably had something to do with the way my hands were clamped tightly over my mouth.  
  
_Probably for the best, given how sound apparently carries in this place,_ I thought sourly, wincing a little as I unclamped my hands and worked my aching jaw. The last thing I needed right now was Dennis banging on my door wanting to know if I was okay. Not that he was here right now. Apparently he’d left while I was being lightly not-quite-interrogated by Dr Mayhew.  
No, actually, that wasn’t quite fair. The psychological assessment had been nothing like an interrogation, which was almost a pity, really. I could handle interrogations just fine, but this had been more like a friendly chat. Given my relative inexperience with those, I’d almost certainly given away more than I’d intended. But I was also reasonably sure I’d managed to keep a lid on the incriminating stuff so, all in all, I wasn’t too worried.  
  
Okay, that was a lie. I was worried, because I just couldn’t help worrying, but I thought I probably didn’t have too much of a reason to do so.  
  
And… now I was just trying to distract myself from a much more immediate and pressing concern than what Dr Mayhew’s report was going to say.  
  
Carlos. That clusterfuck of a conversation. The fact that my stupidity and my big mouth had gotten me well and truly fucked.  
  
_On the bright side, I found myself thinking, at least that isn’t going to be literal._  
  
But even that sliver of humour, bitter and black as it was, soon faded without a trace; subsumed by a lurking dread. Even now, that dread (or, if I was being honest, something closer to outright panic) threatened to rise up and overwhelm me once more, but I forced it back down. I couldn’t afford to let myself be weak again. I couldn’t. **I wouldn’t**.  
  
_Okay. Alright. Keep it together, idiot._  
Moving more or less on autopilot, I got up and retrieved my first aid kit, laying out the contents on my bed so I could take stock. I was running a little low on thread, but everything else seemed fine. Then again, I had access to a proper infirmary now, so I almost certainly wouldn’t have to stitch up my own wounds any more.  
  
(Well, not unless Carlos ended up damaging me more than he intended and he didn’t want his superiors to find out.)  
  
For some reason, my hands wanted to tremble. I refused to let them.  
  
In any event, the familiar, simple task helped to clear my head. By the time my first aid supplies were neatly squared away again, I thought I could actually focus on my work.  
  
_Might as well get something useful out of this shitshow of a day…_  
It took a little while, but I eventually managed to immerse myself in my task (and was absolutely not thinking about a hand wrapping around my throat and squeezing). A little at a time — fractionally, infinitesimally — the tension in my muscles started to ease. The more time passed, the more I started to think that maybe, perhaps, that conversation wasn’t going to happen tonight.  
  
And then someone knocked at my door.  
  
It took a moment before I could make my body unfreeze from its stupid, instinctive paralysis. It took another moment before I could actually find my voice.  
  
(I tried to tell myself I wasn’t tempted to simply stay silent, and pretend I’d gone to sleep. I didn’t believe me.)  
  
“Who is it?” I called out, dread pooling like icy water within me.  
  
“It’s Dean. Can we talk?”  
  
For a moment, I didn’t understand; couldn’t understand. I’d been so sure it was Carlos; already mentally and physically bracing myself for what was to come. But now it was like the rug had been pulled right out from under me.  
  
“Astrid?” Dean said, startling me out of my fugue.  
  
“Just a minute,” I said, scrambling to my feet. (Forcing myself to unlock and open my door was harder than I cared to admit.) Somewhat incongruously, I noted that Dean was still wearing the Armsmaster T-shirt Dennis had lent him earlier. Even more incongruously, he seemed tense and agitated, shifting his weight back and forth as if impatient. It was a complete contrast to his usual calm stillness. “What is it?” I asked, worried.  
  
“Can I come in?”  
  
Well, that wasn’t ominous at all.  
  
“Of course,” I said. I stood to one side, opening the door wider. “You can take the chair.”  
  
It was only polite. Plus, it meant he wouldn’t be between me and the door.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
I closed the door behind him and sat on the bed.  
  
“What’s this about?” I asked cautiously, when he didn’t speak right away.  
  
“I just had a conversation with Carlos,” he said curtly.  
  
“Oh.” My voice was faint; the word little more than an expelled breath.  
  
The chair creaked slightly as Dean shifted in place, and he drummed the fingers of one hand restlessly on his knee. I honestly wasn’t sure he was even aware of what he was doing. Nevertheless, his absent-minded twitchiness made me feel… antsy. I tried to ignore it.  
  
He met my gaze unblinkingly.  
  
In a very, very controlled voice, he asked, “Do you have a problem with queer people, Astrid?”  
  
I suppressed my instinctive grimace of disgust and just stared at him, nonplussed.  
  
Did Carlos send him to ask me that?  
  
I considered lying outright, but what was the point? I could hardly walk back what I’d almost said.  
  
Anyway, I didn’t want to. I was telling enough lies already, even if only by omission. I wasn’t going to lie about that.  
  
Of course, the choice was made easier by the fact that I was going to be disciplined regardless of what I said right now.  
  
“Not with the people themselves,” I said slowly, fumbling for a way to explain in a way that made sense. “I just don’t… agree with their lifestyle choices.”  
  
“You think it’s a choice?” Dean asked, his voice low and oddly soft; his expression unreadable.  
  
“Well, it’s not exactly… natural,” I replied, deeply uneasy at the fact that I was speaking ill of my commanding officer, not to mention deeply uncomfortable at this topic of conversation. “And people get impulses all the time that they choose not to act on. Like wanting to smack someone for being an asshole. So I don’t see why this is any different.”  
  
“Oh, it’s very different. Trust me.” He still spoke in a low voice, but there was a distinct edge to it now, and his eyes narrowed a little with what looked like anger. “You’re talking about asking someone to live a lie. To… To repress their feelings and deny a fundamental part of who they are just to please… Just to avoid making other people a little bit uncomfortable.”  
  
“That’s not it at all,” I protested. “It’s about not letting themselves be dragged into a life of… of deviance and unnatural urges. They’d be better off — happier, even — if they could just be **normal**!” My voice had gotten louder and louder, until that last word was almost a shout. My face flushing, I made myself stop and take a breath. “Wouldn’t they?” I asked quietly.  
(Apropos of nothing, my stupid, treacherous brain reminded me that Meera and Lin had certainly seemed happy enough. I ignored it.)  
  
Dean looked at me for a long moment, and something about the tension in his posture and the set of his jaw made me shift my weight a little in case I had to move. Not that I really thought he was actually going to go for me, but… Better safe than getting hit with a blast of apathy or whatever and losing the will to stop him smacking me around.  
  
The air felt so thick with tension, I was almost surprised I could still breathe it.  
  
“Look,” he said, his tone very tightly controlled. “I don’t have the time or the patience right now to try to reason you out of your homophobia, but-”  
  
“That’s not it!” I said, unable to keep from interrupting. “I don’t hate people who are… like that. I wouldn’t try to hurt them for it.” Not unless I had to, anyway. I wasn’t like Lance. Or Dad’s men. Or Dad. “I just think it’s… wrong.”  
  
“ **But** ,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken, “one way or another, you’re going to have to get over it. This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteen fifties. You can’t expect people to force themselves back into the closet to protect your delicate sensibilities. At the very least, I strongly suggest you try to avoid blurting out any other unfortunate thoughts you might have.” He sighed, and he seemed… tired all of a sudden. “Look, Carlos has had… bad experiences with homophobes in the past. Really bad. He was just about starting to accept that this was a safe place; that he doesn’t have to hide who he is around us. And now…” He shook his head. “You may not have meant to hurt him, Astrid, but you stepped on that fucking landmine anyway. And that’s going to have consequences.”  
_Tell me something I don’t know,_ I thought bitterly, suppressing another stupid flinch.  
“I know,” I said quietly, “but I can’t help the way I feel.”  
  
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” he said sharply, leaning forward a little. “If you can’t help the way you feel, why on earth would you think it’s different for anyone else?”  
  
“But-” I began, and then forced myself to stop before pointing out that my feelings were normal, while theirs… weren’t.  
  
Somehow, I didn’t think that would go down well right now.  
  
“Good catch,” Dean said, his tone distinctly frosty. I tensed again, not sure what to expect, he just looked at me.  
  
_Why the fuck can’t I stop being so goddamn twitchy? What’s wrong with me?_  
“Is that it?” I asked, my tone sharper than I’d intended as my own temper slipped its chains and anger burned so hot within me it was a wonder I didn’t spontaneously combust. “Is that all you wanted to say? Because I have a lot of work to do, and I’d really like to get back to it.”  
  
How dare he?  
  
How fucking **dare** he come into my room, my space — sit on my goddamned chair, even — and tell me that immorality and deviance were something to be… accepted. Celebrated, even!  
If he kept pushing me, I thought I might just knock his fucking block off, no matter how much I owed him.  
  
“Astrid,” he said tightly, his whole body tensing.  
  
“What?” I snapped, when he didn’t continue.  
  
Looking down, he took a few deep, measured breaths, apparently trying to calm down. I sure as shit knew what that looked like, even if I usually experienced it from the other side. It wasn’t something I’d ever seen Dean do before, though. Then again, I’d never seen him this agitated either. I couldn’t help wondering who the real Dean was. The calm, still, relatively nonthreatening but rather sarcastic presence I’d first come to know him as? The challenging, effortlessly confident, affectionate (extremely affectionate, and without a shred of self-consciousness about it) person he was with Victoria? This angry, barely-keeping-his-cool version who’d practically ordered me to get over myself?  
  
Well, whoever he was in actuality, the person who met my gaze when he lifted his eyes again was completely inscrutable.  
  
_Looks like he can maintain a poker face just fine around anyone but Victoria,_ I thought, with a small, distant flare of resentment.  
“Never mind.” His voice was completely without inflection. “Today has been… irritating, and I’m not in the best of moods. I think I should go.”  
  
_Yeah,_ I thought viciously. _You really fucking should._  
He got to his feet, and so did I. I crossed the room to hold the door open for him.  
  
He paused on the threshold, looking almost as if he wanted to say something, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was a sigh. It sounded… tired.  
Suddenly, I felt… I wasn’t sure what I felt. Anger, sure, but also something else, something that seemed to stab right through my chest.  
  
Whatever the fuck it was, it made me say, “I’m sorry your day was shitty. I hope tomorrow is better.”  
  
For a moment, he didn’t react at all.  
  
“Thanks,” he said eventually, so quietly I had to strain my ears to hear it. “Same to you, Astrid.”  
  
“Thanks,” I echoed, the word ringing hollow in my ears.  
  
_Not fucking likely,_ I thought, as I closed and locked my door again.  
  
Not with what tomorrow would likely bring.  
  
_I just hope Carlos doesn’t damage me too badly._

* * * * *

 _Okay,_ I mused as I tucked into my breakfast, _today does have at least one good thing going for it._

I’d half-wanted to huddle in my room until it was time for today’s check-up. Just for that cowardly impulse, I’d forced myself come to the canteen instead of making breakfast in the Wards HQ kitchen. It hadn’t been easy. Even now, I felt like I was jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, tensing whenever someone came near me. Or even moved in my vague general direction.

Despite all that, though, I was glad I’d made myself come here.

_Mmm… bacon._

Bacon made everything better, at least temporarily. I did feel guilty about indulging like this when I hadn’t hit the gym since Saturday but, on the other hand… bacon. Besides, I was celebrating the sudden and extremely welcome return of my appetite this morning. Eating was a joy again, rather than a trial.

I would just have to make up for my period of enforced laziness when I was cleared for exercise again.

Movement caught my eye, and I glanced up to see some familiar figures heading my way. They were carrying trays of food.

“Morning, Talos,” Seraph said cheerily. “You don’t mind if we join you, do you?”

Given that she’d set her tray down and was already helping herself to the seat opposite me by the time she’d finished speaking, it seemed that whether or not I minded was more or less a moot point.

“Go ahead,” I said, with only the merest hint of sarcasm.

I was honestly a little surprised to realise that I didn’t actually mind all that much. I liked Gimel squad. Plus, there was a part of me that welcomed the idea that they might be able to drag me out of my own head for a bit.

“Thanks,” she trilled, giving me a lopsided grin.

I… may have rolled my eyes a little as I cleared my books off the table and put them back in my bag.

“Yes, she’s always this pushy,” Shutterbug said in a mock-confiding tone as she slid into the seat next to me. “And this disgustingly perky. You get used to it, don’t worry.”

“She’s sitting right here, you know,” the woman in question pointed out, but her cheerful demeanour remained un-dented.

“I think that’s the point,” Boomer murmured, taking the seat next to Seraph.

(It still seemed a strange to me that so many of the PRT commanders tolerated such a high level of informality and back-talk from their subordinates, but I was starting to get used to it. They obviously just had a different command style than I was used to, that was all.)

(Besides, they were clearly at ease right now.)

“And I’m supposed to sit where, exactly?” FrouFrou said indignantly as he approached, shooting a somewhat jaundiced look at the others.

“You snooze, you lose, big guy,” Boomer said, shrugging.

As they bickered back and forth a little, I rolled my eyes again and pushed my chair back. Silence fell as I got to my feet.

“Hey, I’m not taking your seat,” FrouFrou said.

“I wasn’t offering,” I replied drily. “And if you get any bright ideas about going after my bacon while my back is turned, you should know that I am not above shanking a motherfucker.”

The rumble of his laughter was joined by Boomer’s snort of amusement, and Shutterbug’s soft, breathy chuckle. I found a small smile on my face as I dragged over the empty two-seater table next to us. I barely even noticed the way my sore ribs ached with the minor exertion.

“Thanks,” he said, smiling broadly as he set his tray down on the newly-acquired table. “I’ll get the chairs. Better get back to your breakfast before someone — that is to say, Boomer — decides to risk a shanking.”

He certainly didn’t need to tell me twice!

I quickly slid back into my seat, giving Boomer a warning glare as I sampled more of the delicacy in question. He held his hands up in mock-surrender.

“Don’t worry,” he said, still laughing. “You’ve convinced me. Your bacon is safe.”

“Good,” I said, grinning at him. Amusement was soon replaced by apprehension, however, when I noticed that Seraph was regarding me thoughtfully. My grin quickly faded. “Is something wrong, M-, uh, Seraph?” I asked carefully.

Had I said or done something wrong? Should I not have mock-threatened FrouFrou?

“Not at all,” she drawled, one corner of her mouth quirking up slightly, her eyes positively glittering with what, I was relieved to note, seemed to be humour. “I just can’t help noticing that you seem a lot more relaxed than you were when I met you.”

I shrugged.

“None of you are in my chain of command at the moment,” I said, simply. “Kind of makes it easier to stand down.”

“You’re a weird kid,” Boomer murmured, shaking his head.

“Not a fucking kid,” I snapped before I could stop myself. Pausing for a beat, I continued in a milder tone. “I’ll cop to weird, though. That’s legit.”

“You’re in good company, then,” Shutterbug murmured, thankfully breaking the tension before it could fully congeal.

Or maybe it had just been in my head.

“How’s Murphy doing?” I asked, before I could do or say something else wrong. And because I genuinely wanted to know.

“Recovering,” FrouFrou said.

“Complaining,” Boomer put in. Grinning, he shook his head. “For someone who’s been in and out of the infirmary as many times as he has, the man sure does have a talent for finding new things to complain about.”

“He liked the cake,” Shutterbug murmured. She sounded a little distracted, and I noticed that she was fiddling with her phone.

“It was a damn good cake,” FrouFrou said.

“I think you mean a fucking awesome cake,” I corrected, and he laughed.

“Yeah, that. My compliments to the chef. Baker. Whatever.”

“I’ll ask Aegis to pass the message on to his brother,” I offered without thinking, and then flinched inside as I realised that it would mean talking to Carlos.

Silence fell for a few moments, everyone seemingly lost in contemplation. Maybe of the cake; maybe of other things. I was just frantically trying to avoid thinking about how pissed off Carlos was with me right now.

 _It’ll be fine,_ I told myself. _Whatever happens, I can get through it._

Breakfast suddenly seemed a lot less appetising.

“So,” Seraph said suddenly. “Talos.”

Half apprehensive and half relieved to be dragged out of my thoughts, I wondered idly if my new cape name had been a footnote in a PRT bulletin somewhere.

“Yes?”

“Is it true you put two members of Aleph squad in the infirmary?”

“What?” I spluttered. “No!” My mind caught up with my instinctive denial, and honesty compelled me to add. “At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I guess Roman might have had to have his ribs checked out, but I didn’t think Spider was that badly…” I flushed scarlet when I realised they were all looking at me, my words trailing off into an inaudible mumble. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, around,” Seraph said; airily, unhelpfully. “So, what happened?”

Was she pissed off? Amused? I thought more the latter, but it was honestly hard to tell.

“I don’t know,” I said, scowling. “I was more or less unconscious at the time. I guess I mistook them for hostiles and responded accordingly. But as far as I know they’re both fine.”

That was what OB had said, after all, and he didn’t seem like the kind of man who believed in sugarcoating things.

“They’re tough; I’m sure they can take it,” FrouFrou said dismissively. “And Spider probably deserved a smack.”

“I probably owe them an apology, though,” I said, wondering uneasily if I was going to have to worry about reprisals. “They were trying to help me. They didn’t deserve to get walloped, or half-crushed, or whatever.”

“You put yourself in the infirmary, though,” Seraph noted. “And on your first night out, too.” She grinned suddenly. “Should we start calling you Jinxette?” I gave her a sour look, which just made her laugh. “Okay, maybe not,” she said. “But I’ll think of something, don’t you worry.”

“Great. Thanks,” I said, in the flattest tone I could manage. “Another fucking nickname.”

“Another one?” Boomer asked.

“Clockblocker seems to love the damn things,” I grumbled, spearing a mushroom with more force than was strictly necessary.

“I have trained my padawan well,” Seraph murmured, sounding very pleased with herself. Before I could say anything about that — and it would have been pretty scathing, I was sure — she abruptly snapped her fingers and sat up straight. “Speaking of training, that reminds me: I have a message for you.”

“Oh? What is it?”

She cleared her throat dramatically, drawing herself up in her seat… and then proceeded to speak in a perfectly ordinary conversational tone.

“Nick said he hopes you feel better soon. Also, that you’re a fucking idiot for pushing yourself so hard, and you should drop him a line so he can tell you that himself.”

_Ah. That’s why she came to to sit with me._

I rolled my eyes, both warmed by Nick’s concern and thoroughly irritated by the fact that everyone and their dog seemed determined to tell me the same fucking thing.

“Thanks,” I said, drily. “He needn’t bother, though. OB already let me know in no uncertain terms exactly how many shades of stupid I was. I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

_Not without telling someone first, anyway._

Boomer pulled a face.

“You have my deepest sympathies,” he said, and he actually sounded sincere. “I’ve been on the wrong side of the old bastard’s ‘you’re a fucking moron’ speech a few times. It wasn’t fun.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be such a fucking moron, then,” FrouFrou said, grinning. Boomer just flipped him the bird.

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said, not wanting them to think I was the kind of person who folded in the face of such a mild reprimand. “He just yelled at me a bit. It’s not like he actually hit me.” And… now they were looking at me. Why the fuck were they looking at me? “What?” I asked, trying not to show how self-conscious I felt. “Do I have something on my face?”

I checked my mask in case it had slipped, but it was still exactly where it was supposed to be.

“Yeah, actually,” said Boomer, studying me critically. “Looks like someone actually did thump you one. Or several.”

“They did,” I said, flatly. “But I hit the fucker back with extreme prejudice.”

“Attagirl,” murmured FrouFrou, chuckling softly.

My cheeks heated. Not in a bad way, though. It actually felt sort of… nice? I didn’t really know what to say, though — and didn’t want to risk sticking my foot in my mouth in any case — so I busied myself with finishing off the rest of my breakfast.

After a moment, Seraph and Boomer started up a conversation about some kind of… training exercise? That was what it sounded like. Shutterbug chipped in the odd comment or two, but she seemed to be mostly occupied with her phone. FrouFrou seemed content to listen to his squad mates chat. I was just starting to wonder if anyone would mind if I pulled out some of my work, when FrouFrou cleared his throat softly.

“So,” he said quietly. “First time in the field, right?”

“Yeah.” _As a Ward, anyway._

“First op’s always rough,” he said. If he’d sounded at all pitying — or, hell, even just sympathetic — I might just have got my hackles up. But his tone was matter-of-fact; just like a veteran talking to a new soldier. And that… That, I didn’t mind so much.

“Yeah,” I said, again, and — especially with what Lance had told me — that didn’t feel like admitting weakness so much as… acknowledging a truth.

“First time you’ve seen people die?” he asked.

I looked down at my empty plate, forcing my breathing to remain steady and my hands not to clench into fists.

“No.”

“Ah.” I wondered what he meant by that. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. “You saved people though,” he continued, after a moment.

“People keep telling me that,” I found myself saying.

“Does it help?”

I considered the question for a moment or two and then looked up at him again.

“Kind of.” A sigh escaped my lips. “Yeah, I guess. Just… it would help more if there hadn’t been so many… so many we couldn’t save.”

So many **I** couldn’t save, I meant.

“That’s cape fights for you,” FrouFrou said laconically, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Especially ones between heavy hitters like Purity and Lung. People get killed. You can’t save everyone. Just do the best you can, learn from your mistakes, and move on.”

“You make it sound… simple,” I murmured, wanting more than anything to believe it was.

“Oh, it’s anything but,” he said, giving me a lopsided, humourless smile. “But it is what it is. Part of the job.”

I turned his words over in my mind, trying to fit them into the framework of what I knew. And… it kind of did.

“And you learn how to carry it so it doesn’t weigh you down?” I asked, hearing the echo of Lance’s voice beneath my own.

“Something like that, yeah.”

I thought for a moment more, and then offered him a hesitant, but genuine smile.

“Thanks,” I said. “I think that helps. Or… it will.”

When I had the time and the distance to process it properly, with a clear head.

“No problem,” he replied, his teeth gleaming white against the darkness of his skin as he returned my smile. “My CO said something similar to me, once upon a time. I’m just paying it forward.”

Looking at FrouFrou, a sudden realisation struck me like a punch to the face. If I’d stayed, if I hadn’t run, if I’d become what Dad wanted… we would have been on opposite sides. We would have been enemies. And if we’d clashed with Gimel squad, Dad would have made an example of FrouFrou, just on general principle.

No, worse.

He would’ve made me do it.

The thought of it made my stomach clench.

In any case, I didn’t really know what to say in response to FrouFrou, so I just nodded. And, in the sudden lull, I heard Boomer speak in a low, vehement tone.

“And, with all due respect, that’s a crock of shit. How long are they going to keep us on TP duty?”

_What?_

What the fuck had I missed?

And… TP duty? Was that another way of saying shit detail?

“Until the investigation has cleared us of any wrongdoing,” she said, holding his gaze and keeping her voice absolutely level. “And the cafeteria isn’t an appropriate venue for this conversation.”

Boomer’s lips tightened briefly, and then he sighed, seeming to deflate a little.

“Okay, fine, you’re right,” he said.

“I generally am,” she agreed, buffing her nails faux-modestly.

That seemed to kill the conversation.

“What’s TP duty?” I asked. I really wanted to ask about the investigation, and whatever it was they’d been arguing about, but I didn’t want to push my luck too much all at once.

“Training and paperwork only,” Boomer grumbled, pulling a face. “No field ops except for emergencies.”

“Officially, we’re on a Non-Active Rotation,” FrouFrou added. He also didn’t sound very happy about it.”

“And yet we still get the early shift,” Shutterbug said, yawning in an oddly delicate manner. “How’s that fair?”

I frowned, trying to figure out a way to get more information without seeming like I was prying. My phone buzzed while I was still thinking, and I absently pulled it out to check it. And then I froze, staring at the display.

“Something wrong?” Seraph asked.

“I don’t know.” My voice seemed to echo weirdly in my ears. “Apparently Director Piggot wants to see me this afternoon.”

I acknowledged the meeting notification — not a request — more or less on autopilot, blindly putting my phone away again as I tried not to panic.

“Are you in trouble with the big boss?” Boomer asked, with what I felt was a completely inappropriate chuckle.

“I don’t know,” I said, again. “I guess I’ll find out.” Mentally shaking myself, I checked my watch and got to my feet. “Anyway, it’s been nice chatting, but I need to get going. See you around, I guess.”

I collected my bag and tray, too distracted to pay much attention to the chorus of goodbyes that followed me. There was only one thought on my mind, looping over and over again.

_Just how badly fucked am I?_

* * * * *

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Mr Forbes,” I said, willing my cheeks not to flush. “We, uh, hadn’t covered that yet at Winslow.”

Did that sound like an excuse? I hoped it didn’t sound like an excuse. But I didn’t want him to think I was stupid, or that I just hadn’t bothered to do the work.

Maybe I should just have stopped at saying I didn’t know.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll soon have you up to speed,” the math teacher said, with what I thought was supposed to be an encouraging smile. Thankfully, he then moved on to someone else.

I heard low voices murmuring together somewhere behind me. The words were mostly inaudible, but I thought I could make out the word ‘Winslow.’ The tone was definitely disparaging. I resisted the urge to turn around and scowl at the assholes in question, concentrating instead on adding to my list of things to work on.

It was a depressingly long list.

When the lunch bell rang, I quickly gathered up my things and started to navigate my way purposefully through the crowded hallways, but then I found my steps faltering.

 _I should just find somewhere quiet so I can study while I eat my lunch,_ I told myself.

Fuck knows I needed the studying time. Last period had proved that; not that I really needed any additional proof. So using this time to kill two birds with one stone would be the sensible thing to do. The smart thing.

And yet…

Without really making a conscious decision to do so, I found myself heading towards the canteen.

 _I did tell Victoria I’d be there,_ I reasoned. _It would be rude to just blow her off like that._

And, in my experience, being rude to a fucking brute wasn’t exactly the wisest course of action.

(I forced down the memory of Carlos looming angrily over me, redoubling my efforts to keep away from thoughts of what he might do with that anger.)

(While I was at it, I tried not to speculate about why Director Piggot wanted to see me.)

(I was equally successful with both endeavours.)

Besides, I didn’t have to stay long. I could just say hello, quickly eat my lunch and then take my leave to go to the library. There would still be enough time to get some work done.

Of course, when I approached Victoria’s lunch table, I spotted Meera and Lin sitting there together, looking… cosy. (Unease rippled through me as I tried not to wonder how many of the girls sitting here were harbouring unnatural feelings for Victoria, or for each other.) I saw Amy, scowling down at her plate as if it had personally offended her. And then there was Dean, who I emphatically did not want to talk to right now. Luckily, by the way he glanced up at my approach and then looked away without any acknowledgement whatsoever, that feeling was definitely mutual.

(I told myself that didn’t hurt, not even a little.)

I immediately started second-guessing my decision to come here, but by then it was too late.

“Hey, Astrid,” said Victoria, smiling one of her brilliant smiles. “How are you today?”

All in all, I was actually feeling pretty fucking awful. And yet, somehow, I found my spirits lifting enough to actually smile back at her.

_Maybe coming here was a good idea after all._

* * * * *

“Hi Astrid,” Lin said brightly. She shuffled her chair a little closer to me, presumably so she didn’t have to raise her voice. I had to stop myself from pulling away.  
  
Victoria had turned away from me to pay attention to some of her other… her actual friends. And, of course, to Dean, but the less said about that the better.  
  
I’d actually just been thinking about heading off to the library when Lin spoke to me.  
  
“Hi.” I was careful to keep my tone perfectly, properly polite. Not cold, but not warm either. I also didn’t smile.  
  
(I tried to tell myself I didn’t feel bad when Lin’s own smile seemed to droop slightly at the edges.)  
  
“How has your second day at Arcadia been?” she asked.  
  
“Okay, thanks.” I almost asked her about her day, but swallowed the question unspoken. It wouldn’t do to encourage her.  
  
Her forehead creased briefly in a frown before she smoothed it out again and gamely persevered.  
  
“Is your migraine any better?”  
  
“Yes, a little.”  
  
“But you still decided not to risk the cafeteria food,” Meera drawled, leaning over Lin to gesture at my mostly-eaten sandwich.  
  
I shrugged.  
  
“I was craving a cheese salad sandwich.”  
  
Had been ever since Sunday, in fact. Still, at least Chris had gotten to enjoy the one I’d been unable to eat then. Assuming he wasn’t just being polite when he said he liked it.  
  
I wondered how he was doing. I hadn’t really spoken to him in person since he’d accompanied me to the infirmary on Sunday. We’d exchanged a couple of texts — mostly him hoping I was getting on okay at Arcadia and me thanking him — but it wasn’t the same. I’d seen him yesterday in the team briefing, of course, but then I’d had my debriefing and psychological assessment and he’d been holed up in the workshop until he and Carlos headed out on patrol.  
  
I hoped he was having a good day.  
  
(I hoped Carlos wouldn’t ever… take advantage of him.)  
  
“Is it good?” Lin asked. I had to admire her persistence.  
  
I opened my mouth to say something polite and unconducive to continuing the conversation, but what came out instead, was, “It’s fucking awesome.”  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
But, well, it was. Food in general was fucking awesome right now. Not that it wasn’t generally, but the past couple of days had made me appreciate it all over again.  
  
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” Lin said, her eyes practically sparkling with what looked an awful lot like happiness on my behalf.  
  
_If only I hadn’t talked to her before I found out what she was,_ I surprised myself by thinking. The regret underlying the thought stung more that I would have expected.  
  
It suddenly occurred to me that I never did get around to throwing away her phone number. I’d have to make sure to do that when I got back.  
  
(Not that it would matter. I’d automatically memorised it when I’d looked at the scrap of paper; force of training at work. Still, it was the principle of the thing.)  
  
I didn’t have the first fucking clue what to say, so I picked up the rest of my sandwich and stuffed it in my mouth.  
  
_That’ll do it!_ I thought triumphantly. _Can’t make conversation now._  
  
Of course, I almost couldn’t breathe either, and I came perilously close to choking again, but somehow I managed to chew and swallow without injury or too much embarrassment.  
  
“You know,” Meera said, sounding amused, “this isn’t Winslow. No one’s going to steal your lunch.”  
  
“No one stole my lunch at Winslow,” I said, once I’d finally finished the rather large bite of sandwich. I immediately picked up an apple and set about eating that.  
  
“Careful you don’t choke,” Lin said, sounding concerned.  
  
“Or are you hoping for Victoria to pat you on the back again?” Karen, no Hyena-Girl leaned in to murmur, grinning so widely it was a wonder it didn’t split her face in two.  
  
I glared at her over my apple, and she blinked, seeming a little taken aback.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Nothing,” I said flatly, when I could speak again. “That just wasn’t funny.”  
  
I reflected with some annoyance that my brilliant idea of making sure my mouth was too full to talk was doing absolutely nothing to discourage these people from actually fucking talking to me.  
  
_Things would be so much easier if I could just beat the shit out of someone…_  
  
In my peripheral vision, I noticed Dean glance over towards us, and then look away again.  
  
(There was a sick, sinking sensation in my stomach, like when I faced a problem I didn’t have the first clue how to solve. Or when I’d fucked up and didn’t know how to fix it.)  
  
“Well, excuse me for making conversation,” Hyena-Girl sniffed, her lips compressing into a thin line.  
  
_Oh. She’s still there._  
  
“That’s a nice bracelet, Karen,” Lin blurted out suddenly, almost a little desperately. “Is it new?”  
  
“Yes,” Hyena-Girl said, a little distractedly. Somewhat pointedly -- or so it seemed to me -- she turned to show Lin the item in question. “It was a birthday present from Steve.”  
  
As she and Lin continued to talk, I noticed that Meera was studying me thoughtfully.  
  
“What?” I asked, aiming for polite and ending up somewhere closer to suspicious.  
  
She shook her head slowly.  
  
“Relax, Astrid,” she murmured. “We don’t bite.” She was a pretty little thing, delicate and fine-boned; no physical threat to me at all. And yet she smiled in a way that made me think of Hess as she added, “Mostly.”  
  
And as I scrambled blindly for some kind of response, she turned away, effortlessly joining Lin and Hyena-Girl in conversation.  
  
I tried to tell myself I wasn’t relieved.  


* * * * *

This was a bad idea.  
  
No, coming here in the first place had been a bad idea. This, though?  
  
This was a fucking stupid idea.  
  
I was going to leave; going to head off to the library to get my head together and get some studying done. I’d even started gathering my things. But then I saw The Bitch Supreme sitting there, picking at her food, and I just...  
  
It was all **her** fault. If she hadn’t put that fucking stupid idea in my head, then I wouldn’t have asked Carlos if he… if wanted me. And he never would have told what he told me. So I wouldn’t have opened my fucking mouth again and crammed both feet all the way in it.  
So I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and turned to face Amy.  
  
“First of all,” I said, in a determined but low voice, “I have no intention of making any fucking requests of you, don’t you worry. Second of all, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”  
  
Amy started a little at my words, abandoning the pretence that she was actually eating her lunch and lifting her head to stare at me with the strangest expression on her face.  
  
Rather than snapping back at me, though, she sounded almost hesitant as she said, “With the… jewellery thing, you mean?”  
  
The somewhat anaemic response left me off-balance, like missing a step in a staircase. When I’d briefly considered the various ways this little chat might go, Amy not firing back at me with a volley of her own had not been among the possibilities I’d prepared for.  
  
“Yes, the jewellery thing,” I said impatiently, trying not to show how she’d taken some of the wind of righteous indignation out of my sails. Even knowing this was unwise, I narrowed my eyes at her and pushed forward with, “What the fuck did you think I meant, Ames?”  
  
“Don’t call me that!” she snapped, glaring scalpels at me from under the frizz of her hair. “You don’t get to call me that.” It was all I could do not to let my lips curl into a triumphant grin. I did, however, deliberately relax into my seat, doing my best impression of Hess’ insouciant, undaunted, lounging pose. Amy set down her fork with an audible click and straightened her spine. “Why don’t you just-” Unexpectedly, she bit off the rest of her sentence so suddenly I almost expected to hear her teeth clack together. While I watched in bemusement, she took a slow, deliberate breath. When she focused her attention on me again, her expression was back to merely resting bitchface. There was, however, a surprising lack of bite to her tone when she continued with, “I’m glad I was wrong.”  
  
“What?” This was utterly perplexing. What the flying fuck was her game? “Why the fuck would you say that?”  
  
Leaning a little closer to me, she opened her mouth to speak, and then hesitated, glancing around the table. For once, Victoria and Dean weren’t actually wrapped up in each other. They were both busy with their own conversations, though, as were various other people seated around the table. Some, though, were watching the two of us with varying shades of interest and/or subtlety.  
  
“Let’s go somewhere else,” she said abruptly.  
  
I thought I might have gaped at her. She was already standing, though, gathering her things — including her tray with its wastefully half-full plate — and leaning in to murmur something to Victoria. All the while, I was sitting there like a stunned guppy, trying to figure out what the fuck this was about. What did she have to say to me that she couldn’t say right here at the table?  
  
That thought was enough to snap me out of my daze, and I scrambled to gather up my own things. Going along with this… whatever-it-was… might yet turn out to be even more moronic than engaging with Amy in the first place, but curiosity was eating me alive.  
  
By the time I was on my feet, Amy had finished making her goodbyes, or whatever, and was tapping her foot impatiently. So, naturally, I took my time making my own goodbyes, such as they were.  
  
“Okay, lead on,” I told Amy. I made my tone deliberately upbeat; was rewarded when she huffed out a short, irritated breath and turned on her heel. She set a rapid pace, but with my longer legs I had no trouble keeping up.  
  
“Finally,” she muttered as we disposed of our lunch debris, scowling at the used tray rack like it had personally offended her. “Did you really have to say goodbye to everyone at the table?”  
  
“It’s called good manners,” I said condescendingly; hypocritically. “Anyway, I didn’t say goodbye to everyone.”  
  
“No, you’re right. You just spent ages simpering at **Victoria** ,” she spat.  
That stopped me in my tracks, and That Fucking Bitch stormed off ahead while I stood there, choking. Was that what this was about? Was she going to warn me off… off harbouring unnatural thoughts about her sister too?  
  
 _Fuck that noise!_  
I went from a standing start to a rapid stride in no time flat, catching up with Amy just after she disappeared through the doors that led to the courtyard. (Yeah, Arcadia had a courtyard. Fucking figured.) I let my momentum carry me past her, taking a brief moment to confirm that there no one was looking our way before turning to plant myself firmly in her path. The startled squeak she let slip as she jerked herself up just shy of walking right into me was music to my fucking ears.  
  
“I wasn’t simpering,” I growled. “And if you dragged me out here to warn me off… off trying it on with your sister, don’t fucking bother. First of all, somebody else beat you to it. Second, and most importantly, I’m not-” Memories of yesterday’s talks with Carlos and Dean flashed into my mind, choking off the rest of that sentence before I committed myself, giving me a much-needed beat to take a breath and rethink. “I’m not into girls.” I should have stopped there, but I found myself adding, “And you need to be careful about throwing around accusations like that. It’s the kind of thing that gets people hurt.”  
  
Amy’s expression had flashed from shock, to anger, to disgust, to something completely fucking unreadable over the course of my short speech. Now, though, the only thing showing on her face was pure, incandescent rage.  
  
“Are you… threatening me?” Her voice was cold as ice; a cutting cold that pierced me to the core, freezing the blood in my veins as I realised how badly I was fucked if that idea got back to Glory Girl.  
  
Someone laughed; a wild, breathy sound just this side of cracked. I was shocked to realise it was me, even though nothing about this whole situation was even close to fucking funny. Even so, it was an effort to make myself stop. Amy was looking at me like she thought I’d lost every single one of my marbles.  
  
I didn’t blame her.  
  
“Trust me, Ames, if I was threatening you, you’d fucking know about it.”  
  
“I told you not to call me that,” she said irritably.  
  
“Yeah, you did,” I agreed, mustering up a lopsided grin in response to the predictable intensifying of her bitchface.  
  
“It sounded like a threat to me,” she grumbled, and I counted it as a minor victory that she didn’t bring up the matter of her name again.  
  
“Well it wasn’t,” I said firmly, my grin fading as the brief spark of amused triumph was smothered by the stupid fucking **feelings** I couldn’t seem to keep a lid on right now, leaving them free to writhe around in my gut like a nest of angry snakes. “Anyway,” I continued, not even trying to stop the sudden wave of impatience from flooding my tone, “I thought you dragged me out here for a reason. Are you going to get to it anytime soon?”  
I thought for sure she was going to hurl back some snappish retort, but she surprised me yet again by simply shrugging and responding in a relatively mild tone.  
  
“Let’s at least move out of the middle of the path first.” On that note, she led me over to a kind of nook thing with a bench. Sitting herself down, she looked expectantly at me, rolling her eyes when I remained standing. “I am not getting a crick in my neck looking up at you,” she said flatly. “Sit the hell down already.”  
  
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” I murmured, having narrowly decided it wasn’t worth kicking off another argument that would delay the assuaging of my curiosity. Anyway my response provoked an exasperated sigh out of her, so that was definitely worth it. But now it was my turn to look at her expectantly. “So, what do you want?”  
  
“Nothing,” she said. “That’s not…” She scowled, sighed, and tried again. “Do you want to… talk?”  
  
Okay. I must have misheard. The Bitch Supreme did not demand my presence so we could have a cosy little chat. She must have said something else.  
  
“You what?”  
  
“You heard,” she said, with a touch more asperity than was really warranted. “I know you’re not deaf. Or, you weren’t a week and a bit ago.”  
  
I tried not to twitch at the reminder of my debt to her. Not that I’d forgotten. Not that I could ever forget. Was that what this was? Was she calling in a marker? But if that was the case, why would she ask if **I** wanted to talk?  
  
 _Talking was what got me into this mess in the first place,_ I thought, the sentiment sour and sharp with regret.  
If only Ms Grant hadn’t put that thought in my head; hadn’t given me the idea that talking actually solved problems, rather than just causing them. If only I hadn’t blurted out the first thing that came to mind, like an idiot. If only I didn’t know about Carlos being… one of those people.  
  
(Then again, if I hadn’t asked the question, if he hadn’t told me, I would still be worrying about what he might want from me.)  
  
If you asked me, Ms Grant’s much vaunted ‘communication’ was nothing but a fucking liability. Or maybe that was just me.  
  
Anyway, why the fuck would Amy think I’d ever want to talk to her about anything?  
  
I guessed there was only one way to find out.  
  
“What do you want to talk about?” I asked cautiously.  
  
“No.” She made a sharp, impatient gesture in my general direction. “Do you want talk? About… anything?”  
  
She said that like it should mean something to me, but it really didn’t. Unless...  
  
My temper flaring, I quickly glanced around to make sure no one else was in earshot and leaned forward to glare at her.  
  
“Are you talking about the conversation I had with my team leader last night?”  
  
Had Dean said something to her? It didn’t seem likely, but I couldn’t think of anything else it might be.  
  
“What?” she said blankly.  
  
In a distant corner of my mind, I observed that she was looking at me with what seemed to be genuine confusion, but I was too goddamned angry to care.  
  
“It was really fucking excruciating,” I growled. “So fuck you very much for that.”  
  
“How the hell is that my fault?” she demanded, the confusion in her eyes rapidly swallowed up by an answering bloom of anger.  
  
“Because he’s the one who gave me that goddamned jewellery set!” I snapped back. I tried not to huddle in on myself as I remembered exactly what a shitshow last night had been. “And now he’s pissed off at me.”  
  
(But… at least I’d found at least one of his lines. And when he disciplined me for crossing it, at least I’d know what to expect in the future. I’d know how bad it would be. That was a good thing. Better pain than uncertainty.)  
  
(I tried to ignore the feeling like a hand tightening around my throat.)  
  
“Why?”  
  
Huh. Maybe Dean hadn’t said anything to her.  
  
“Like I said, it was a really fucking excruciating conversation,” I said flatly. And that was all I was going to say on the matter. Carlos’ dirty secret wasn’t mine to tell. Except…  
  
Except it wasn’t secret, a was it? Dean knew, at least, and from what he’d said, so did the other Wards. But that didn’t mean that Amy necessarily knew. In any case, it definitely wasn’t something I wanted to discuss right now.  
  
“Okay, so you don’t want to talk,” Amy murmured. “Fine.” She paused for a moment — hesitated, really — giving me the weirdest fucking look, and then… “I could… ask Victoria to give someone a really bad day. If you want.”  
  
I stared at her for what felt like a long time.  
  
“Okay,” I said, finally, after trying, and failing, to make some kind of sense out of this. “I think I’m missing something here. Who exactly is it that you think Glory Girl should smack around on my behalf?”  
  
Her shoulders twitched in a shrug that looked about as awkward as I felt.  
  
“You know, the person who...” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at me.  
  
Perplexed, I studied her for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through her frizzy little head. Was she talking about my new bruises? It didn’t seem likely, but I couldn’t think of what the fuck else it might have been.  
  
“Let me get this straight,” I said carefully. “Are you offering to have your sister beat the shit out of my brother?”  
  
For some reason, she seemed to twitch, looking a little queasy.  
  
“Your brother?”  
  
I frowned, studying her. This was… It didn’t make any fucking sense. When she’d fixed me, her only notable reactions had been carrying had been boredom and sarcasm. Why the fuck would she decide to care now?  
  
And how fucking **dare** this bitch suggest I needed someone to stick up for me!  
 _Don’t smack her,_ I reminded myself, taking a deep, calming breath. _It doesn’t matter how much she deserves it, Victoria will fucking flatten me._  
  
When I was sure I was in control of my temper, I calmly indicated the visible damage.  
  
“You’re talking about this, right? Well, don’t worry about it. I can fight my own fucking battles, fuck you very much.” I looked down at her, sneering. “Anyway, since when did you get so squeamish? It’s only a few bruises.”  
  
 _It’s not like they’re fucking fractures._  
The thought brought with it a resurgence of bitter-edged anger, clawing at my throat. It also sparked a realisation, and I silently cursed myself.  
  
 _Shit. I never warned Lance about the micro fractures…_  
Dad disciplined both of us, after all. What if he’d damaged Lance the same way he’d damaged me? I should… I had to warn him. He needed to know. But… I’d have to find a way to contact him without alerting Dad, and that was easier said than done.  
  
It was, however, a problem for later. Right now, I had another problem to deal with, and the bitch was staring at me like I’d started speaking in tongues.  
  
“But-” she started, and then stopped, frowning so fiercely I thought her face was going to fold in on her face. “He didn’t…” Stopping again, she shook her head. “Just… Never mind,” she said gruffly. “The offer’s there. Accept it or don’t. It’s no skin off my nose either way.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you check with Victoria first before offering her services?” I asked, bemusedly.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  
  
That wasn’t an answer. But there was something I wanted to know even more than whether she made a habit of pimping out her sister as a leg-breaker.  
  
“Why are you doing this?” I asked bluntly. “What’s your angle?”  
  
“Does it matter?” Her words were dismissive, her face set in its usual combination of vague disapproval and no fucks to give. She started to get to her feet. “Anyway, I’m done. We’re even now.”  
  
“Not even close,” I blurted out.  
  
She froze for a moment, and then abruptly whirled on me, her eyes practically on fire with rage. Her hands were balled into fists, she shifted her balance a little and, for a moment, I thought she was actually going to take a swing at me.  
  
“I don’t owe you a frigging thing,” she spat hotly. “And if you think for one second that-”  
  
“Other way around,” I interrupted. “I’m the one who owes you.”  
  
I had to admit, although a part of me regretted not letting her build up a bigger head of steam before heading her off at the pass, the utterly flummoxed look she gave me now more than made up for it.  
  
A handful of seconds ticked by, and then…  
  
“What?”  
  
“You fixed me,” I said simply.  
  
I wasn’t sure what reaction I might have expected, but it wasn’t what I got.  
  
“Oh. That,” she said dismissively, a grimace briefly twisting her face. “Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“That’s not your call to make,” I told her.  
  
“Of course it is,” she retorted. “If I say you don’t owe me anything, then you don’t. It’s that simple.”  
  
She seemed vaguely irritated. I wasn’t ashamed to admit that warmed the cockles of my heart a little.  
  
“Not the way it works.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed, and she studied me like a was a specimen under a microscope; like she was looking for weaknesses or flaws. I met her gaze with my best blandly amiable expression.  
  
“I heal people all the time. It’s what I do. I don’t ask for or expect anything in return.”  
  
“I can’t speak for those other people,” I said. “That’s between them and their consciences. But I know what you did for me. And I always pay my debts.” It was probably stupid of me, but I couldn’t resist adding, “Even if they are to insufferable bitches like you.”  
  
She stared at me for a moment longer, and then shook her head.  
  
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” she sneered. “Do you really think you’re so special? You’re not. Why would I make an exception for you, when I don’t for the other thugs and trouble-makers that I **fix**?”  
My façade threatened to crack, just a little, but I continued on like her barbs didn’t sting.  
  
“Like I said, Ames, it’s not up to you. And I’m not a fucking thug.”  
  
Well, not just a thug. But I wasn’t really in the mood for fucking nuance right now.  
  
The Bitch Supreme looked pointedly at my hands — their state a testament to the fact that my scuffle with Lance hadn’t been nearly as one-sided as certain people seemed to think — before meeting my gaze again, her eyebrows raised slightly.  
  
“So, let me get this right,” she said. “You’ve decided that you owe me, whether I like it or not? That what I think about it just doesn’t matter?”  
  
“Give the girl a goldfish,” I murmured. “I think she’s got it.”  
  
“Do I even get a say in how you pay off this so-called debt?”  
  
“I might take suggestions, but otherwise…” I shrugged. “Nope.”  
  
“That’s just ridiculous,” she said scornfully. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, smirking up at her in the most obnoxious way I could. “I get to follow my conscience **and** piss you off, all at the same time. That’s a win-win in my book.” I glanced pointedly at my watch, and then got to my feet, lightly shoving my way past her when she didn’t step back fast enough or far enough. “Now, fun as this is, I need to get going. See you around, Ames.”  
  
“I told you not to call me that,” she snapped.  
  
“Sure thing, Ames,” I said cheerfully. I couldn’t resist looking back to see her reaction, and immediately regretted it when, instead of anger, there was only a mockery of pity.  
  
“How sad.”  
  
“What is?” I couldn’t help asking, even knowing that was exactly what she wanted me to do.  
  
“That brain damage I couldn’t fix,” she said, her voice dripping with fake sorrow even if that broken-glass humour glittered once more in her eyes. “I guess it must have been worse than I thought.”  
  
“Go fuck yourself, bitch,” I growled, the words bubbling out before I could stop them.  
  
“No,” she drawled, sounding utterly, thoroughly bored. “You go fuck yourself, Astrid. Just do me a favour? Don’t think of my sister when you do.”  
  
And then the bitch flounced off.  
  



	49. Atychiphobia 4.04

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If part of this looks a little familiar, you're probably not a pre-cog or experiencing déjà vu. Probably. I lifted a certain conversation about deceased parents from an earlier deleted scene I previously posted as an omake.

“So,” Clockblocker began in a conversational tone. “I hear you fucked up royally yesterday.”

I looked up from the camera feeds so suddenly that I almost cricked my neck, scowling uncertainly in his direction. For his part, he was studying me with what seemed like nothing more than mild interest, plus maybe a dash of amusement. My scowl deepened.

“What?” I asked cautiously.

What the fuck had he heard? And what the fuck was he going to do about it?

Leaning in a little — I had to hold myself still so I didn’t flinch like an idiot when he moved — he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“A little bird told me you almost called our glorious leader something rather unfortunate.”

I froze.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe as I remembered the way Aegis had looked at me with fury in his eyes. It was only with an effort that I could shrug off the paralysis, and I had to take a moment more to make sure my face and voice were under control.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

Was it Aegis? Gallant? Someone else? Just how far had this spread?

(Did Chris know? Would he be angry with me too? Would he… Would he not want to be friends with me any more?)

“Someone,” Clockblocker said, shrugging lazily.

I eyed him with suspicion. He seemed calmer than Dean had been, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Appearances, after all, could be deceptive.

Apropos of nothing, an image flashed into my mind: a slyly smirking redhead in a skirt that was way, way too short for… him. Discomfited, I shoved the thought away again, trying to keep my cheeks from heating with embarrassment.

Fuck, had that been something more than a bet gone wrong? Was Clockblocker… abnormal too? Had Dad been right about this place, this whole organisation, being a cesspit of corruption and immorality?

Unease and disgust twisted my insides, making me want to shift uncomfortably under that bland stare. Hard on the heels of that, though, an invigorating blaze of anger sparked into life. The familiar, reassuring burn of it buoyed me up, stiffening my spine and my resolve. I looked him dead in the eyes.

“If you’re going to have a go at me too, it should wait until we’re off-duty,” I told him.

“Nah, not really my thing.” He still spoke in that casual, faintly amused tone, not even changing it when he went on to add, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m going to mock you about it **forever** , but only because I like you. Anyway, we’ve got other things to focus on right now.”

I stared at him, nonplussed, spinning my wheels as I tried to figure out how to respond.

Naturally, my discomfiture seemed only to amuse him further.

“You’re the one who brought it up in the first fucking place!” I pointed out, not at all unreasonably. Not that I actually wanted to talk about it, but now I was just confused. Also, now that I thought about it, kind of… dissatisfied. I was expecting a fight; I was ready for a fight. And after winding me up, he had the nerve to just… back off?

Fucking **asshole**.

And, he was going to mock me because he liked me? The flying fuck was that supposed to mean?

From the way he smirked suddenly, I had the uncomfortable feeling that some or all of my thoughts had been written all over my face.

(I tried not to notice how his expression was almost identical to the one he’d worn in that thrice-bedamned photo.)

“Now, now, Astrid,” he said, with mock reproach. “This isn’t the time for chattering. You’re supposed to be learning the ins and outs of console duty.”

I almost choked on my indignation. This asshole had the sheer fucking nerve to lecture **me** about staying focused? The guy who seemed pathologically incapable of shutting his yap for more than five minutes at a time?

_Motherfucker!_

I had to take a couple of deep breaths (and think cathartic thoughts about smacking the smug right off his face) before I could speak in something even vaguely approaching a calm voice.

“We’re on duty,” I snapped. “Use my cape name.”

Okay, maybe I didn’t sound all that calm.

“Talos, then,” he said, rolling his eyes. Smirking even more obnoxiously, if that was actually possible, he added, “Still disappointed you didn’t go with Iron Maiden.”

I ignored him.

Wonder of wonders, he actually did stay quiet after that. Unfortunately, that just left me alone with my thoughts. No matter how I tried to concentrate on what was going on out there — not an awful lot, apparently — or on my work, I just couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday; my mind worrying at it over and over like a tongue poking at a loose tooth.

My commanding officer was a… a deviant.

Worse than that, he was absolutely furious with me right now.

(He was a fucking brute, and even if my powers weren’t still more or less fucked, there was nothing I could do to stop him going too far when he finally got around to disciplining me.)

Hellfire and damnation.

What the flying fuck was he waiting for? Was keeping me in suspense part of the punishment? Did he want to see me twist myself up in knots with dread before he finally deigned to put my out of my misery?

I just…

I wished he’d fucking get on with it.

“That’s quite the face journey you’ve got going on there,” Clockblocker observed, much to my consternation.

I went still, locking my features down as best as I could even as I cursed my stupid face for its expressiveness. I needed to be better than this. Damnit.

_Control_ , I told myself miserably.

“Just thinking,” I said, and if I sounded a little stiff and stilted, then that was still much better than broadcasting my stupid fucking feelings to all and sundry.

(Sometimes… Sometimes I thought my life would have been easier if I just didn’t feel anything at all.)

“Hey, don’t do that,” Clockblocker said, and if he’d been anyone else, I might have said he sounded almost regretful. “Just because Image and Branding named you after a metal man, that doesn’t mean you actually have to be a robot.”

“Not a fucking robot,” I muttered, the irritation leaking out before I could shut it down. “And I chose my own cape name, fuck you very much.”

Admittedly, I’d picked it from a list of options suggested by the Branding team, but that still counted.

_Hell, it’s more of a choice than Dad would’ve given me._

I had to suppress a shudder. Thankfully, Clockblocker didn’t comment on it.

“Talos is okay, I suppose,” he said, stroking his chin in a parody of thought. “Kind of serious business, but then so are you.” I scowled at him, but he just grinned. “Anyway,” he continued, smugly, “not everyone can pull off a name as awesome as mine.”

“As undignified, you mean,” I retorted, shaking my head.

“Dignity is overrated,” he said, grinning as he lounged in his chair.

“Of course you’d say that.” I rolled my eyes, a tiny bit amused despite myself. (And maybe, possibly, a tiny bit relieved that he didn’t seem to be treating me any differently than usual.) “You wouldn’t know dignified if it bit you on the ass.”

“Better bit on the ass than having a stick up it,” he fired back. “Unlike certain people not a million miles away from here.”

That… That didn’t even make sense as a come-back! But rather than saying that, or — better — just ignoring him altogether, I found myself casting aside my better judgement and actually responding to his idiocy.

“I do not have a stick up my ass,” I said, glowering. And, even though I knew better, I couldn’t stop myself from adding, “And, you know, I didn’t technically call Aegis anything, unfortunate or otherwise. I didn’t actually finish that sentence.”

Frustration bubbled up inside me and I stifled the urge to get up and start pacing restlessly. (I ignored the part of me that wanted to just start disintegrating things until I felt better. Apparently, the fact that I was physically incapable of acting that temptation right now did sweet fuck all to quench it.)

“Yeah,” Clockblocker said, drawing the word out. “The way I heard it, the context got the message across loud and clear.”

“He caught me by surprise,” I snapped, a helpless, helter-skelter sensation building up in me; a feeling like this conversation was spiralling out of control. “I wouldn’t even have said that much if he’d just kept his goddamn secrets to himself! And Dean came to me. He fucking asked me, point blank, for my opinion. It wasn’t like I went out of my fucking way to share it. I wouldn’t have said a goddamn thing otherwise.”

If it was up to me, I would have happily put the whole sorry incident to the back of my mind and just moved on. I knew how to keep my mouth shut. I had a whole lifetime’s worth of experience in keeping so-called ‘unfortunate’ opinions to myself. I would have been more than happy to put those skills to use if it would make my life a little easier.

Was that sympathy in Clockblocker’s eyes? Probably not. It was almost certainly just wishful thinking on my part. Still, at least he wasn’t snapping at me, or looking at me like I was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe. That was something, wasn’t it?

“It’s not exactly a secret, you know.”

_Maybe it should be,_ I only just stopped myself from retorting.

“Well, it was news to me,” I muttered instead, wishing with all my heart that I hadn’t just blurted out the first thing that came to mind when Aegis had dropped that little bombshell on me.

_Fuck you, Amy,_ I thought spitefully. _This is all your fucking fault._

Although, if everybody knew about Aegis’ proclivities, I supposed it was bound to come up in conversation sooner or later. So maybe all Amy had done was hasten the inevitable.

No. Fuck that. I was not inclined to be charitable towards that frizzy-haired bitch right now. Even if I couldn’t remain blissfully ignorant forever, things would undoubtedly (maybe) have gone much better if she hadn’t stuck her goddamn oar in.

So, yeah. Totally blaming Bitchface McSnarkass for that epic clusterfuck.

“How did the subject come up, anyway?” Clockblocker asked, for all the world as if he could read my fucking mind.

“None of your goddamn business,” I snapped.

“Now you’re just making me curious.” He eyed me speculatively. “It must be something juicy if it makes you turn that fetching shade of pink.” I resisted the urge to clap my hands to my cheeks, wishing futilely that I was actually wearing a mask. He grinned suddenly; a positively wicked expression that made my poor face heat up even more. “You didn’t proposition him, did you?”

“Fuck, no!” I burst out, trying not to shudder at the thought. “I- I wouldn’t do that. Especially not… He’s a superior officer, for fuck’s sake. It wouldn’t be appropriate. I wouldn’t even… I-” I broke off a moment to catch my breath, my skin all over pins and needles as I fought to urge to shift uncomfortably in my seat. I hated the plaintive, pathetic note in my voice when I asked, “Why would you say that?”

“Whoah, there,” Clockblocker said, seeming taken aback for some reason. He made calming motions with his hands. “I was joking.”

I eyed him suspiciously, but as far as I could tell, he seemed to mean that. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding.

“Well it wasn’t fucking funny,” I muttered. My heart was racing like I’d just run a marathon, and it felt like there wasn’t enough air in here. A wave of nausea rippled through my stomach.

_Fucking migraines. The gift that keeps on giving._

Clockblocker was staring at me like he wanted to say something, and it felt like my insides were twisting themselves in knots from dread over what it might be. In the end, though, all he said was, “Time for me to check in with Tin Man and Pintsize.”

I was so distracted that took me a moment to parse the words, and then I was so relieved that I actually found myself grinning a little.

“Better not let Vista hear you call her that,” I murmured. I didn’t bother to correct the other nickname, though, because fuck Gallant. He was not my favourite person right now.

(I told myself it didn’t make me feel sick inside, thinking about the anger in his eyes when he’d looked at me.)

“She’s not going to know unless someone tells her. Is she?”

I snorted in derision.

“I’m not a fucking snitch,” I proclaimed haughtily, and then scowled as I remembered yet another reason why I was pissed off with him right now. “Unlike certain other people around here.”

He ignored me in favour of checking in with the patrol. Which, much though I wanted to, was something I couldn’t actually fault him for. Grudgingly, I had to admit to myself that, in defiance of all odds and expectations, Clockblocker really was capable of being professional when the situation called for it. Which, weirdly, only made me more annoyed. Although, thinking about it, I supposed that wasn’t actually all that weird. The fact that he could be professional made it all the more vexing that he so often actively chose not to be. I swear, sometimes it was like he was almost daring Aegis to discipline him. I honestly didn’t know how he got away with it. Unless…

I froze.

No. No, that couldn’t be it. It couldn’t. But Aegis had said he had a… a boyfriend. Could it be…? Were Aegis and Clockblocker… together?

I stared at him as he spoke to Gallant and Vista. I should have been listening, I knew, but all I could think of right now was… was…

No. I couldn’t. For the sake of my own sanity, I couldn’t think about this any longer. I needed to focus on something, anything else. Anything at all.

_Does he wear that skirt for Aegis?_

Oh, fuck you, brain. Fuck you very fucking much.

_So, would he be the girl in that relationship?_

Nope, not going there. Nuh uh, no way.

_How would that even work?_

Jesus fucking Christ! Why did my mind hate me so much?

Right at that moment, I came closer that I cared to admit to just putting my head in my hands and whimpering pathetically.

“Okay, I have to know: what on earth is going through your mind right now?”

I started a little at Clockblocker’s voice, trying in vain to gather the shreds of my composure and get myself under some semblance of control.

“Nothing,” I said, wanting to cringe at just how guilty I sounded. I looked over at him, and promptly wished I hadn’t as that fucking photo popped right back into my mind’s eye again. “Just… work.”

“Work,” he echoed, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” I said, determined to try to brazen this out. “I’ve got a lot of shit to do, and less time to do it in now I’m back at school. I’m trying to figure out how to get everything done.”

“Uhuh.” He crossed his arms, looking levelly at me.

“It’s true,” I insisted, warming to my subject. “Ms Price in PR wants to bring forward my official introduction and get me out on patrols ASAP. But the PRT won’t give the go ahead until I pass all the basic courses, so I’ve had to step up the pace. Plus, I’ve got a whole bunch of tutorials about how to deal with the public, Image wants to meet with me to sort my costume out.” Well, as much as they could while my power was still fucked. “And, on top of all of that, I’ve got schoolwork to think about.”

Fuck. Now I was starting to feel panicky for completely different reasons. I couldn’t afford to fall behind. I just couldn’t. Failure was absolutely not an option.

“You really are the worst liar, you know,” Clockblocker said, laughing. I shot him an indignant look, but he waved off my objections before I could even voice them. “Oh, I’m sure that’s all perfectly true — although, if you ask me, you’re worrying way too much — but that isn’t what you were thinking about just now.”

I glowered at him in an attempt to cover up my unease.

“Don’t you ever get tired of trying to piss me off?” I growled.

“Not so far,” he said, and then gave me an unexpectedly shrewd look. “Unless it’s actually bothering you, in which case you can just tell me to knock it off.”

“Would you actually listen?”

“Yes.” I gave him a flat look, and he winced. “I’d try,” he amended.

“Then stop fucking pushing.”

“Okay.”

I eyed him suspiciously, half-expecting some kind of trick.

“It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple,” he confirmed, giving me a lopsided grin. “And now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” I stared at him blankly. “The fuck do you mean by that?”

“What you said earlier about snitches sounded kind of pointed. And you’ve been kind of prickly with me over the past couple of days. Even more so than usual, I mean. So… are you pissed at me, specifically, or is this more of a world in general thing?”

“Both!” The word slipped out before I could think better of it, but once I’d said it I sure as shit wasn’t going to take it back. Instead, I doubled down on my death glare.

“What did I do?” he asked, more mildly than I would’ve expected.

I huffed out a breath.

“Just… It doesn’t matter. Forget it. Just deal with the console.”

“I can multitask,” he said. “And things are quiet at the moment.” He sat up a little in his seat, regarding me with a thoughtful, almost serious expression. The scrutiny made me want to shift uncomfortably, but I held myself still and forced myself to meet his gaze. “You said you’d use your words, Astrid.”

I tried not to feel guilty at the reproach in his voice.

“Use my fucking cape name,” I reminded him waspishly. “We’re still on duty.”

If I was hoping I could distract him by pissing him off, apparently that hope was to be dashed.

“You said you’d tell me if I did something that actually upset you,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’re not going back on your word, are you?”

I almost choked.

“Low fucking blow, asshole,” I eventually managed to say. “But I’m not upset.” He gave me a deeply sceptical look. “I’m not,” I insisted. “I’m angry. There’s a difference.”

“So, why are you angry at me?” The quiet patience in his voice set my teeth right on edge. On balance, I thought I preferred what I would charitably call his humour. Dennis actually being something approaching serious was a complete fucking out of context problem. I wasn’t sure I could cope.

No, not Dennis, Clockblocker!

Goddamnit. Now the asshole had me slipping into bad habits.

I wanted more than anything to just stalk off in a huff. But I was supposed to be sharing console duty. And, well, much as it galled me to admit it, the fucker had a point. I had said I’d use my goddamn words.

I huffed out a breath and pinned him with a glare.

“Did you really have to run and tattle to Aegis?” I grumbled, once more forcing down a spike of unease as I thought of my commanding officer (and, by extension, found myself wondering when and how he was going to put me in my place). Clockblocker looked puzzled. “On Sunday,” I clarified.

“Wait,” he said, giving a disbelieving laugh, his eyebrows shooting up so high they practically merged with his hairline. “ **That’s** why you’re pissed at me? Because I told the team leader you were hurt?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said. “Anyway, I had it under control. I was already going to the infirmary. I’d even asked Kid Win to go with me!”

(Distantly, I wondered how Chris was doing. He’d sent me a couple of texts yesterday wishing me luck on my first day at Arcadia, but I hadn’t really spoken to him in person since Sunday. For that matter, I hadn’t even seen him outside of yesterday’s team briefing. I hoped he was doing okay.)

(I hoped he wasn’t angry with me like Aegis and Gallant were.)

“Well, I didn’t know that.” Clockblocker sounded for all the world like he thought he was being the reasonable one here. “Let’s face it, you don’t exactly have the best track record with taking care of yourself.”

“I can look after myself just fine,” I told him firmly. “I’ve been doing it my whole fucking life. I know how to assess and deal with damage, and I’m pretty fucking good at keeping myself functional no matter what.”

I wasn’t sure why that made him pull a face.

“You challenged Shady to a fight while you had a fractured wrist and ribs,” he said. “Not to mention about a bazillion bruises.”

I tried not to twitch, but from the way the asshole nodded in satisfaction, he realised he’d struck a nerve there.

“They were only hairline fractures,” I protested, scrambling to claw back the lost ground. “Anyway, I didn’t know at the time. If I had, I might have rethought my actions.”

Maybe. Possibly. Or maybe things would have shaken out exactly the same way. But he didn’t need to know that. In any case, he was already shaking his head.

“You’re not doing anything to disprove my point.” I drew breath to retort, but he held out a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “Look, be angry with me all you want, but can you honestly tell me you would’ve done anything different if, say, Chris was hurt and being stubborn about getting help?”

I opened my mouth to protest that I wasn’t a fucking snitch, but then I actually thought about what he was saying. About how I’d feel if I saw Chris risking serious damage to himself and knew that going up the chain was the only way to make sure he got the help he needed.

But… it wasn’t the same thing. I was used to dealing with damage. From everything I’d seen so far, Chris… wasn’t. So he was more likely to risk doing himself a further mischief. **I** knew what I was doing. Even so…

“Damn you,” I ground out through gritted teeth. My hands clenched into fists of their own accord.

“I’ll take that as vindication,” he said smugly. But then he smiled in a way that almost didn’t look smug at all. “Can’t you just accept that your teammates are going to worry about you when you get hurt?”

Hellfire and damnation! Why the fuck did he have to put it like that? And why did he have to be so… so fucking **reasonable**?

“Fine,” I said with bad grace, trying to hide how fucking weird this felt. “But next time check with me first before going straight to the team leader.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He tilted his head quizzically. “So, is there anything else?”

“What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously.

He rolled his eyes.

“Are you pissed off at me for anything else?”

“Aside from you being an asshole who doesn’t respect personal space, you mean?” I shot back, instantly regretting the words.

“What?” On the plus side, stupid as it had been, blurting that out did seem to have knocked some of the smug out of him. In fact, right now he seemed downright uncertain. “I am trying to be better about that.”

“Yeah, you’re very trying,” I muttered. Making an effort to lighten my tone, I continued, “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

“If it’s bothering you,” he started, but I cut him off mid-sentence.

“It’s nothing,” I said firmly. “Anyway, I’m going to have my revenge.”

Just as soon as I figured out a suitable retaliation for his little stunt.

One that, alas, didn’t involve beating seven shades of shit out of him.

He looked briefly puzzled, and then enlightenment apparently dawned.

“Are you talking about the pretty princess makeover?”

Well, shit. When the fuck did Clockblocker, of all people, get so perceptive? And right when it was inconvenient, too. But the silence was starting to linger longer than was comfortable as I struggled to find something to say. In the end, I went with my old stand-by: anger.

“I said forget it, ass-wipe,” I said dismissively, trying to shove down the remembered feelings of helplessness and humiliation; to wall them away so they couldn’t touch me.

It didn’t work as well as I’d have hoped.

I tensed in anticipation as Clockblocker started to speak, but rather than the derision I was expecting — or, worse, pity — he gave me the most obnoxious smirk and said, “You really are awful at using your words, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t smacked you yet, have I? I’d say that means I’m doing pretty fucking well.” I gave him a sharp-edged, feral smile. “Unless you’d rather I stop trying…”

“No, I’m good,” he said swiftly. “Keep up the good work. A plus for effort and all that.” He gave me a double thumbs up, and I found myself grinning in earnest at he hammed it up like it was going out of style.

Not that I wasn’t angry, still.

(Even though it was stupid. Even though I’d known what I was letting myself in for. Even though I’d told him I could take whatever he threw at me.)

But I was used to dealing with anger; to shoving it down where it couldn’t drive me to do something that someone would regret.

(Usually me, eventually, no matter who else found themselves rethinking their life choices in the short term.)

“You are such a fucking clown,” I told him, shaking my head.

“I prefer to think of myself as a jester,” he informed me haughtily, the effect spoiled somewhat when the mock-dignified expression he wore dissolved into a grin. “And you have to admit I’m excellent at it.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Because I sure as shit am not going to.”

Naturally, the asshole just smirked.

And… now I was back to thinking about that fucking photo again.

_Goddammit!_

I more than half-expected some pointed questions about my sudden turn for the crimson, but they didn’t materialise. Clockblocker was apparently keeping his word not to push. I did notice him shooting me the odd curious glance, though. I tried to ignore them, instead doing my level best to split my attention between the visual and audio feeds and my work. It was, as Clockblocker had said, a relatively quiet night on the mean streets of Brockton Bay. Doubly so for Gallant and Vista, who were flying the flag in the downtown commercial district. I wondered idly if the last-minute change in patrol route was because of last night’s vandalism.

I tried not to feel guilty that I wasn’t giving the console duty my full and undivided attention. _It’ll be okay,_ I told myself. _I’m not on my own here. Clockblocker will catch anything I miss._ I tried to ignore the doubt that flickered inside me, telling myself that I had to trust my teammates to do their jobs. If I couldn’t, well, what was the fucking point of having a team in the first place?

Anyway, fuck knows I needed the time. There was precious little enough of that as it was.

But now I was just fretting.

_Okay,_ I thought. _Enough woolgathering._

The time seemed to slip by far too quickly, and — judging by the disquieting thoughts that kept insinuating themselves into the forefront of my mind when I wasn’t looking — my subconscious was doing its level best to sabotage me at every turn. Still, with a little effort, I managed to wrestle my subconscious into submission effectively enough to actually accomplish something useful.

I indulged myself in a moment of satisfaction.

“What are you looking so pleased with yourself about?” Clockblocker asked curiously.

“Finished another course module,” I told him, trying to focus on the pride of accomplishment, rather than despair at how much I still had left to do.

“Well… done?” He made it a question, like the asshole he was. “You’re really rattling through those, huh?”

“Kind of have to,” I said tightly, my sense of achievement starting to evaporate as though it had never existed in the first place.

“You know, you can always tell them if it’s too much,” he began. “They’re-“

“You just fuck right the fuck off, asshole,” I snapped, glaring at him as much to hide the cold shivers going down my spine as it was in anger at the implication that I couldn’t cope with a bit of hard work. “I can handle it.”

“Touchy, much,” he murmured.

“Asshole, much,” I grumbled in response, and then reflected that maybe I didn’t want to be on the outs with all of my teammates right now. I took a deep breath, trying to breathe out my irritation as I exhaled. “Sorry,” I said, grudgingly. “I’m… not in the best of moods right now.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he said, laughing. “Luckily, I have a fondness for crotchety girls.” I eyed him suspiciously, not sure where he was going with that, and he laughed again. “So cute,” he said, and then winced. “I keep forgetting. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I said, my instinctive irritation offset by the fact that he was clearly making an effort. In the most patronising tone I could manage, I drawled, “I know it’s a struggle for you to keep a thought in your pretty little head for more than a minute at a time, so I make allowances.”

Rather than the annoyance I’d been hoping for — expecting, really — the motherfucker clasped his hands together and fluttered his eyelashes at me.

“You really think I’m pretty?” he gasped.

In hindsight, maybe I should have expected that Clockblocker, of all people, would not respond to that gibe in any way I’d consider normal.

_And… now I’m blushing again, aren’t I?_

Fucking awesome.

Still, it could have been worse. I could’ve been thinking about that goddamn photo.

_Oh. fucking hell._

“Most guys would take that as an insult,” I observed dryly, desperately trying to get my stupid fucking feelings back under control.

He smirked at me, naturally, but thankfully forbore from mentioning my shameful lack of composure.

“First of all,” he said, “that’s sexist. Second of all, I’m not most guys. And, third of all.” He flashed his teeth in the most shit-eating-est of shit-eating grins. The pinnacle. The platonic ideal of shit-eating grins. The one true shit-eating grin of which all others were merely shadows. “You just admitted you think I’m pretty.”

“What? No! I was… It was an **insult** , you jackass. Just…” I made myself stop talking and take a breath. “You are utterly fucking infuriating sometimes. You know that?”

“And the compliments just keep coming,” he drawled.

“Go fuck yourself in the ear, asshole.”

“Such profanity,” he murmured, affecting a shocked expression. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Hardly,” I shot back without thinking. “My mother’s dead.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew they were a mistake. Before I could get too deep into the inevitable self-recrimination, though, my train of thought was derailed by Dennis’ reaction He was just… staring at me, his mirth vanished as if it had never even existed. His face was as white as a sheet.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he stuttered, his voice so stricken I wouldn’t have recognised it if I hadn’t seen him speaking. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

_He must have lost someone too,_ I realised, with a pang of sympathy. My regret intensified.

“Thanks,” I said stiffly. “But it’s okay. I was only a baby when she died. I don’t even remember her.” I shrugged. “Can’t miss what you never knew.”

That… wasn’t strictly true. I might never have known the woman herself, but I still keenly felt her absence. Dad had made sure of that. Despite being dead and gone fifteen years, Mom still cast a fuck of a deep shadow over my family.

Over me.

An unpleasant prickle went down my spine as I realised that I was only a couple of years younger than she’d been when she died.

When she was killed.

When… When Kaiser murdered her.

If that really was what had happened. Dad insisted it was, even if the motherfucker hadn’t necessarily done the deed with his own two hands. But I found myself going back and forth on the subject. Sometimes I was one hundred per cent certain-sure that my… my uncle had murdered his own sister for a shot at Allfather’s throne. Other times, well… It wasn’t like Iron Rain hadn’t made powerful enemies all by herself. Even at her age.

I just… I didn’t know. The one thing I did know for one hundred per cent certain-sure was that if anyone found out I was her daughter, I’d be fucked seven ways from Sunday.

“Was it…” Dennis’ voice cracked. _Clockblocker,_ I reminded myself. _We’re on duty._ But it was hard to think of him by his cape name when he swallowed hard and asked, in a small voice, “Did she get sick?”

I tensed.

“No,” I said, shortly, resisting the urge to turn away from him like a coward. I’d run headlong into this tripwire. I could damn well face the consequences. My thoughts raced as I cast around for a graceful way to extricate us from this conversational minefield. “But I don’t really want to talk about it.”

_Shit. That was anything but graceful._

“Oh, right. Of course.” Dennis still sounded nothing at all like himself. “I’m sorry.”

I shrugged again. I wasn’t sure I could manage anything like a convincing smile right now, but I made an effort to soften my tone as I spoke.

“It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry about it.” I studied him, still surprised and concerned at how shaken he seemed. _Whoever he lost, it must have happened recently…_ “I feel like I should be asking you if you’re okay,” I added hesitantly, wanting to help but not knowing how. The one thing I did know for sure was that I was deeply uncomfortable at all the fucking feelings on display here; both mine and his.

“What?” He looked startled for all of a heartbeat before his features rearranged themselves into his default expression of amusement; like he knew some secret joke. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the very idea that he might not be. “I just wasn’t quite intending to be that much of an asshole. I guess it was just a brief pang of conscience. Or indigestion. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. But then, I’m generally lucky enough not to suffer from an overabundance of conscience. I keep trying to do away with it altogether, but it stubbornly clings to life; popping up again at the most inconvenient times. Kind of like a weed.”

I raised my eyebrows a little, amused despite myself. Which was almost certainly his intent. But if he didn’t want to talk, I wasn’t going to press him. Certainly not here and now, while we were on duty.

(Maybe I’d ask him about it if we ended up having another late night talk.)

(Maybe I’d also ask him why he was having trouble sleeping.)

(Maybe.)

“So you were intending to be an asshole, just not as much of one?” I drawled, more than happy to roll with the subject change.

“It’s all part of my charm,” he said, loftily, and smirked at me. “I am touched by your concern, though.”

“Touched in the head, more like,” I shot back, relieved to be back on familiar ground.

I barely even minded when he smirked obnoxiously back at me and said, “Don’t you mean my pretty little head?”

I tried not to splutter as I searched for a suitable retort.

_I guess Gallant was right,_ I found myself thinking, wincing mentally at the memory of our last, less than friendly conversation. _Everyone does have their own shit to deal with._

After trading a few more barbs, we lapsed into silence again. There was another check-in with the patrol. I got stuck into another course module, wondering with no small amount of annoyance why the PRT was wasting my time with shit like ‘Effective Emoting for Costumed Capes.’ I would much rather have taken another pass at the jurisdictional stuff, but I was meeting Ms Price later and she’d specifically requested that I take a look over that material. I wasn’t entirely sure how much of it she was expecting me to have learned, so I was doing my level best to memorise all of it.

“That takes me back,” Clockblocker observed, rudely peering over my shoulder at the screen. “I aced that part of the course, you know.”

“Let me guess,” I said dryly, “you failed the one about not running at the mouth whenever you have the chance.”

Sure, its official title might have been ‘something something effective communication part one,’ but it sure as shit seemed to have a fuck of a lot to say about saying nothing at all.

Sorry, ‘sticking to defined talking points.’

“I bet you passed it with flying colours,” he said, which wasn’t a denial. “Unless they got you mad, of course.” I shot him an annoyed look, but he was talking again before I could muster up a suitably scathing retort. “So, when are you supposed to start patrolling?”

“End of next week, assuming my power’s sufficiently unfucked itself by then,” I said, trying to quell the fluttering in my stomach that insisted I was in no way ready for this and that I was bound to fuck something up and end up in the basement and.. and…

_Breathe,_ I told myself, trying to pull my my mind out of its nascent doom spiral. _It’ll be okay. The PRT wouldn’t put me out there if they didn’t think I was ready._

That might have been more convincing if it wasn’t for last Saturday.

“You’ll be fine.” Clockblocker sounded like he was trying to reassure me, which was clearly a sign of the end times. And that I was doing a truly shitty job of concealing my stupid fucking nerves. “They’re not going to throw you into a cape fight your first time out. It’ll just be wandering around and talking to people. That’s easy.”

“For you, maybe,” I muttered. “I think I’d actually do better with a cape fight.” He laughed like he thought I was making a joke. I didn’t bother to correct him. Instead, I seized the opportunity to ask about something that had been bothering me. “So, on a tangentially related note, Vista said on Saturday that you didn’t take part in the S&R op because you’d gone over your hours. What was that about?”

I honestly found it hard to imagine him putting in even the required duty hours, let alone actually going over them.

“That was about the PRT covering their asses,” he said, pulling a face. “I volunteered to help as soon as Vista gave me the nod, but Lysowski didn’t want to risk bringing the wrath of the almighty Youth Guard down on her head.”

Vista had contacted him? Huh. That was interesting.

“Are the Youth Guard strict about that kind of thing?” I asked cautiously. I guessed Ms Grant did seem to have a hair up her ass about ‘exploitation of vulnerable minors’ or some shit like that, but at the same time, she did seem to get that we needed to do our fucking jobs. Was she less reasonable about that than I’d thought?

“They can be,” he said. “More to the point, some of the duty officers can be paranoid about how strict they might be, so they tend to err on the side of cowardice.”

I stared at Clockblocker for a moment, startled by his bitter vehemence.

“How come you were over your hours?” I asked. Did he go out on unscheduled patrols? I knew Shadow Stalker did for sure, and I thought Aegis did as well. I wasn’t sure about the others.

“I do ride-alongs with the PRT and the emergency services,” he said. His tone was casual, his body language relaxed, but there was something that seemed… off. I had the feeling that this meant more to him than he wanted to let on.

_Fuck knows I have a lot of experience with that._

“Ride-alongs?” I asked cautiously, hoping I wasn’t stepping on any landmines here. But if he didn’t want to answer, he’d just deflect, right? Change the subject or something? He wasn’t usually shy about making his feelings known.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “The one thing paramedics always need is more time. By locking down the patients they’re not actively working on, I can give them that.”

“Oh.” I stared at him, nonplussed. “That’s… I hadn’t thought of that.” I searched for something to say that didn’t sound patronising. “Cool.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” he said, plastering a look of mock-surprise all over his stupid freckled face. “Was that… a compliment? A genuine, unforced, intentional expression of admiration?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, asshole,” I muttered, flushing. “But yeah. I think that’s actually pretty cool. I still think you’re a fucking asshole, though.”

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he smugged, smugly, with intent to smug. But… in light of the subject, I thought I’d let him have that, just this once.

Plus, I had so many questions right now.

Anyway, reacting would only give the fucker what he wanted.

“What made you decide to do it? The ride-alongs, I mean.”

“Instead of beating up criminals for great justice?” he asked, grinning faintly.

“Something like that.”

He looked at me for a moment, his gaze shuttered, and I was sure he wasn’t going to answer. I was already scraping together the words to tell him it didn’t matter when he surprised me by saying, “Sure, I could do that. But, the thing is, there are always going to be more criminals. More gangmembers. More fucked up people doing fucked up things. More desperate people. That’s never going to change.”

“That’s… not exactly the party line,” I said, slowly.

According to the pretty, packaged lies the government sold, all of society’s ills could be solved by smacking around the right villains. Never mind that the vast majority of criminals and gangmembers never even came within sniffing distance of a cape. Never mind that people had been fucking themselves and each other up in various creative ways long before capes ever came on the scene. And certainly never fucking mind that any idiot could look out the window and see that the Protectorate was losing.

Omnia is thrown in the Birdcage and suddenly homeless people can sleep safely on the streets? Kaiser is taken out tomorrow ( _I fucking wish_ ) and non-white people in Brockton Bay can stop looking over their shoulders every time they step outside?

_Don’t fucking make me laugh._

“I like to think of myself as a realist,” Clockblocker said. I hadn’t even realised his voice could hold that much cynicism. “Put some random asshole away and, even if they don’t end up right back on the streets again, chances are someone else will just pick up right where they left off.”

“Depends on the asshole, I guess,” a little surprised to find myself arguing the point. “Putting someone like Renegade away, or down, will make a fuck of a lot of difference to his future victims.”

“You really think the PRT are going to let us near someone like him?” He laughed loudly. “Never figured you for a comedian.”

“You fought Hookwolf a while back, though, didn’t you?” I asked, startled. “Some of you, anyway.”

“He rolled over Aegis like a spiky steamroller, you mean,” he corrected. “It wasn’t exactly a fight. More like, wrong place, wrong time. And the Protectorate caught so much shit for it that they still haven’t managed to wash off the stink.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to that.

“Anyway,” he said. “Outside of some rare exceptions, smacking around a few criminals might make you feel like you’re making a difference but, in the grand scheme of things, you’re really not.” He sighed then and, to my surprise, his expression softened and he sounded strangely sincere as he said, “If I can help save even one person, though…” His voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “If I can save one single person who would otherwise have died, then that makes a fuck of a lot of difference to them. And it makes a fuck of a lot of difference to their families. So I’d rather spend my time doing that than bashing bad guys’ heads together.” I stared at him, at the raw emotion in his eyes, the… the earnestness, and I felt… weird. This was… I was so uncomfortable. I wanted to look away, but I was paralysed where I sat, my skin prickling as if it would crawl right off my bones in an attempt to get away from this awkwardness. And then Dennis — _Clockblocker_ — smirked. “Told you I was a lover, not a fighter,” he drawled, waggling his eyebrows.

I choked out a laugh, more at the relief of that awful tension than because that was actually fucking funny.

“You’re an idiot,” I told him, somehow unable to help grinning like one of those myself.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” he retorted, twisting his face into a parody of sadness.

“Well, I’m not a very nice person.”

“Nice is overrated.” His eyes glittered mischievously. “Besides, maybe I like mean girls.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but then the asshole smirked at me again, and whatever I’d been about to say flew right out of my head as I found myself once more remembering that **goddamn** photo. My cheeks on fire, I decided that, for once, discretion was the better part of valour.

“I… need to study,” I muttered, turning back to my work.

_This isn’t backing down,_ I tried to tell myself. Unless I was prepared to escalate to violence, my only winning move — or, at least, my only non-losing move — was not to play this goddamn game. But from Clockfucker’s low, amused chuckle, I had the horrible feeling that I might have already lost.

_Never mind that now,_ I ordered myself sternly. _Concentrate, idiot. This work won’t do itself._

Time passed. Some of it was spent productively, some of it… less so. Naturally, the latter had something to do with the fucking uncomfortable thoughts that kept wrecking my concentration.

_Focus,_ I told myself sternly. It didn’t much help. In the end, during one of my mind’s most insidious and effective bouts of self-sabotage, I reached a point where I just couldn’t stand it any longer.

If I didn’t say something soon, I thought I might actually burst like a balloon.

_Are you and Aegis actually a… a couple?_

No, not that. That question could just fuck right the fuck off, never again to darken the surface of my thoughts.

(But were they, though?)

“Why did you bring up last night’s conversational clusterfuck?” I asked. Only after I’d spoken did it occur to me that maybe I should have led up to the question rather than just blurting it out.

_Story of my fucking life._

Fortunately, Clockblocker seemed to take it in his stride.

“I figured if I didn’t say anything, you’d probably just sit there stewing about whether or not I knew.” He shrugged, giving me a wry smile. “I always have been a fan of pointing out the elephant in the room.”

“I’ll bet,” I said dryly. “Let me guess, you read ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ and decided to adopt the little boy who spoke up as your role model.”

“It’s like you know me.” He grinned from ear to ear. “And you’re damned right I’d point out someone walking around in the buff. Or even just shirtless. Naming no names.” He fake-coughed. “Carlos.”

I froze, too disturbed by that thought to muster up the will to remind Clockblocker he should be using cape names.

“Does he?” I asked, cringing inside as my voice emerged rather more high-pitched than I’d intended. I cleared my throat. “Make a habit of walking around shirtless, I mean.”

I mean, it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen shirtless guys before. But it was a whole different kettle of fish when it was a superior. There were standards, for fuck’s sake! Was it because he was…?

“Well, not a habit, exactly,” Clockblocker said, with what I thought was an excessive degree of amusement at my expense. “But sometimes.” He gave me a considering look. “You know, I think I’m going to start putting together a colour chart for your blushes. I bet I can figure out what the different shades mean with a little effort.”

“You are such an asshole,” I muttered. Still, it was almost a relief to be able to focus on something that wasn’t the idea of Aegis wandering around the place half-naked.

And… there it was again.

_Goddamnit, brain!_

“Does it bother you?” I found myself asking.

Clockblocker gave me an odd look.

“Topless Aegis? No, why would it? He’s pretty easy on the eye, you know.” As I reeled from the implications of him finding the team leader ‘easy on the eye,’ he heaved a dramatic sigh, pouting a little. “Although it can be a little intimidating. All those muscles, you know? Almost enough to make a guy feel inadequate. I mean, not me, obviously. But some guys. Those without so robust an ego. Someone like that might-”

“No, not that,” I broke in, losing patience with his rambling. “I mean, sharing a changing room with…” My words faltered as he turned a sharp look my way. I came within a gnat’s cock of telling him to just forget it, but I forced myself to continue. “With someone who…” I didn’t think this through, did I? “With a guy who’s into…” Words, my old enemy. “With a guy who… who likes… guys.” Phew. “Doesn’t that feel kind of uncomfortable?”

“That was like pulling teeth, wasn’t it?” He shook his head, something almost pitying in his eyes. “And the word you’re looking for is gay. But no, it doesn’t bother me. It’s not like he goes around perving on all and sundry.”

“I… see,” I said. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure I did. I guessed it was good that Aegis was professional enough not to act on any unnatural urges he might feel towards his subordinates. Even so. I sure as shit didn’t think I’d be comfortable getting changed around a girl who was… like that. Who was gay. Especially if she was in my chain of command.

(Oh God. There were girls like that at Arcadia, weren’t there? Maybe even some of the ones in my Phys Ed classes. And… And some of them didn’t have the common decency to keep their… proclivities to themselves. Shit. Well… none of them had better try anything with me.)

“Although,” Clockblocker continued, “to be honest, it’s not like I’d actually mind if he did take a moment to appreciate the view once in a while.” The sly smile that spread across his face started to kindle heat in my cheeks even before he added, “After all, it’s not like I objected to you checking me out.”

“I wasn’t checking you out!” I practically yelped, glaring at him in a futile attempt to cover my embarrassment. “I was just… Chris surprised me when he said you worked out, that’s all. I was curious.”

“A likely story,” he drawled. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you keep looking at me and blushing.”

_Oh,_ **_fuck_ ** _my life!_

“Th- That’s not… I mean, I’m not… I wasn’t…”

_Goddamnit words, you fickle, flighty fucks. Don’t you fucking fail me now. Not again!_

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “Like I said, I really don’t mind being…” The bastard actually waggled his eyebrows. “Appreciated.”

“You are such a fucking **asshole** ,” I growled, having finally managed to wrestle my voice back under some semblance of control. “I wasn’t appreciating anything, you sex-obsessed, egotistical dickwad! If you must know, I was trying not to think about you wearing a skirt!”

Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh shit.

I really just said that.

Hellfire and fucking damnation.

After a moment’s surprise, Clockblocker’s face lit up with what I could only describe as sheer unholy glee.

“Is that so?” he said, practically purring the words. “Please, Talos, tell me more about these fantasies of yours.”

Was it possible to blush yourself to death? If it was, I had a feeling I was well on my way to finding out.

With a herculean effort of will, I managed to bring my voice under at least some semblance of control. Enough to speak at a pitch that wouldn’t shatter glass, at any rate.

“You know that’s not what I meant, shit for brains. Why do you have to make everything sound so… sleazy? Dean showed me a weird photo of you and I was wondering about the story behind it. That’s all.” I glared at him. “Stop smirking.”

“Can’t. Sorry.” I didn’t think he was sorry at all. “What kind of weird photo? There have probably been a few.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Was he really going to make me say it?

“You were dressed as a girl,” I said tightly. “And your skirt was really fucking short. Like, indecently short. It was embarrassing. I was embarrassed for you, honestly.”

(Even if he did have the legs to carry it off.)

“It’s so sweet of you to feel such concern for my wellbeing,” he drawled, still looking like Christmas had come early. “Even if it meant dwelling on thoughts of me in an” — he made asshole quotes with his fingers, because of course he did — “indecently short skirt.”

I looked away. It was probably weak of me, but I just couldn’t stand to see that fucking smirk any longer. Since I’d apparently given up on the very concept of dignity somewhere along the way, I gave into the urge to cradle my head in my hands, sighing so deeply it was almost a groan.

“Can you just… not?” I asked plaintively, my words muffled a little behind my hands. “Why did you even dress up like that, anyway? Did you lose a bet?”

“Maybe I just wanted to feel pretty,” he said lightly.

I peeked through my fingers at him, unsure whether or not he was still making fun of me. I was startled and disturbed to see that his expression was actually kind of… serious. I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat and dropped my hands, trying to figure out what to say.

In the back of my mind, I was sort-of hoping for a distraction. Something that required a Wards response, maybe.

Hellfire and damnation. What the fuck did it say about me that I would almost have preferred dealing with some kind of incident to making conversation right now? Would I really have wanted to risk Vista and Gallant being put in harm’s way if it would have saved me from a little social awkwardness? Well… no. No, of could I wouldn’t. I was exaggerating, that was all. Anyway, I only said ‘almost.’

I might have been pissed off at Gallant right now, but I still wouldn’t have wanted him to run into someone like Hookwolf. Or, worse, Viking. Shit, I wouldn’t have wished that fate on anyone.

But now I was just procrastinating.

I took a deep breath, and let my hands fall away from my face.

“Are you saying you… want to be a girl?” I asked hesitantly, trying not to show how much the idea disturbed me.

Much to my surprise, Dennis actually cracked a smile.

“You don’t need to make it sound like a fate worse than death,” he said. “But… that’s a complicated question. Let’s just say I’m trying a few things out to see how they fit. Figuring stuff out.”

“I don’t understand.”

I wasn’t actually sure I wanted to understand. For fuck’s sake! Was I the only one on the team who was actually fucking normal? What other secrets were lying in wait to trip me up? Did Dean lust after Endbringers? Did Hess have, like, four boyfriends or something? Was Chris into…? No. No, Chris was… sweet. He was **nice**. I really couldn’t imagine him being into anything… twisted. But what the fuck kind of freakshow had I signed up with?

“Well, there’s a shocker,” Clockblocker said, shaking his head. “Look, don’t worry about it for now. You don’t have to get your head around it all at once.” His smile taking on a slightly sharper edge, he added, “And, to be honest, its not actually any of your business. You don't have to get it at all.”

“Fine by me.” I resolved to do my very best to just put the whole thing out of my mind. I eyed Clockblocker cautiously for a moment or two, debating with myself, and then decided to just go ahead and ask the question. “Are you pissed off with me?”

“No,” he said. “I mean, I’m not happy you upset the chief, but it sounds like you didn’t exactly do that on purpose.”

“I really didn’t,” I murmured, suppressing a flinch.

“Well, I don’t so much care what you think, as what you do about it. So, avoid calling anyone any unfortunate names, and we’re good.”

Could it really be that simple?

“Just like that?” I asked, eyeing him cautiously.

“Just like that,” he affirmed.

I thought about it for a moment, and decided to take him at his word.

“Okay.”

_Anyway, if he is mad at me, I guess I’ll find out soon enough._

I just hoped it wouldn’t be before I’d recovered from whatever Aegis decided was a fitting punishment.

More time passed, some of it in silence, some of it spent talking about other, less fraught topics than the fact that the Wards programme was, apparently, some kind of a haven for deviants. It… actually wasn’t bad. And if my turn checking in with Gallant and Vista was rather more stilted that Clockblocker’s had been, then hopefully that could just be put down to unfamiliarity and caution, rather than anything else.

“Well, that was practically arctic,” Clockblocker said cheerfully. “I take it you and Dean haven’t kissed and made up yet?”

_Hellfire and damnation!_

One of these days I really would learn to stop hoping for things. I’d thought that was a lesson I’d learned long ago, but apparently some vestiges of optimism still stubbornly clung to life somewhere within me.

“Fuck off, asshole,” I snapped irritably. “For your information, that’s the first time I’ve spoken to **Gallant** since he barged into my room yesterday to read me the fucking riot act. So no, we haven’t ‘kissed and made up’ as you put it.”

Much to my great surprise, Clockblocker looked vaguely… troubled.

“Gallant… has bad days sometimes,” he said, carefully. “And he’s kind of going through some stuff at the moment. So maybe don’t push him right now?”

“I wasn’t planning on pushing him.”

I tried not to feel irritated at the reminder that the lot of them had been a team for a while before I came along. What was the fucking point? I was the new girl. Of course they’d stick together.

Apropos of nothing, I wondered if Chris was going to retract his offer of a hug. That was when I knew I was being truly pathetic. I mean, it wasn’t like I even wanted a hug, not really. But I thought… I did kind of want a friend. I… I wanted Chris to be my friend.

I really hoped I hadn’t managed to fuck that up.

“Are you doing okay?”

I stared at Clockblocker for a moment, completely thrown by the question.

“Me?” I asked, stupidly; regretting the word even before Clockblocker smirked at me.

“You see any other stressed-out workaholics around here?”

“I’m not a fucking workaholic,” I grumbled. “You just think that because you’re a lazy motherfucker who wouldn’t know hard work if it bit him on the ass.”

“That’s twice you’ve mentioned my ass,” he said slyly. “I’m starting to think you might be a little obsessed by it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said dismissively, trying not to flush.

I was half-expecting him to torment me some more, but apparently he took pity on me. Or maybe he was just bored of making my face go red.

_Fuck knows it’s not exactly a challenge._

“Anyway, stop trying to avoid the question,” he said chidingly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Uhuh.” I would have been impressed by how much scepticism he managed to pack into that single word if I hadn’t been so fucking irritated by it.

“I am,” I insisted. Aside from the fact my power was currently fucked, Dad was probably going to figure out I was a Ward sometime soon, and I had a metric fucktonne of work to do and no fucking clue how I was going to fit everything in. Oh, and Dr Mayhew, in her infinite wisdom, had decided I should have weekly counselling sessions for the time being. One more fucking thing eating up my precious time; more opportunities to slip up and say something I shouldn’t. And none of those were even the worst thing; the real reason why I was pretty far from fucking fine right now. The reason why, instead of just keeping my stupid mouth shut, I took a breath and said, “But, I was wondering…”

I stalled out, searching for the right words, and Clockblocker gestured lazily with one hand.

“Yeeeeeees,” he drawled.

“Just… how badly did I fuck things up with Aegis?”

Not quite the question I really wanted to voice, but at the last minute I chickened out of asking how he was likely to punish me.

“Pretty badly, to be honest,” he said, shrugging. “I know you didn’t technically say the unfortunate thing but, well, he got the idea. And it’s a pretty sensitive subject for him, as I’m sure you realised at the time. It’s probably going to take him a while to calm down.”

_That’s just fucking great,_ I thought dismally. _Good going, idiot. Piss off someone who can smack you into the middle of next week without breaking a sweat. And who has the authority to get away with doing just that._

“He did get pretty mad,” I said, hating how small I sounded. I swallowed against the lump in my throat, trying so shove down my stupid apprehension along with it. “I was kind of surprised he didn’t just beat the shit out of me right then and there.”

Clockblocker was quiet for a few moments and, once again, his expression was strangely serious; maybe even a little… sad? It was an odd look on him and, as utterly infuriating as his smirk could be, I wasn’t entirely sure this was an improvement.

“He wouldn’t do that,” he said softly. “Carlos is a good guy.” _The fuck did that have to do with anything?_ I found myself thinking. I wasn’t sure what expression was on my face right now, but whatever it was, it made Clockblocker grimace. “He has got a temper,” he continued, slowly. Reluctantly? “But he usually just yells and waves his arms around. Sometimes if he’s really mad, he might hit an inanimate object or two, but he doesn’t… He wouldn’t have hurt you, no matter how angry he was. He wouldn’t… He’s not that kind of person.”

_Okay. So he doesn’t discipline subordinates when he’s too angry to control his strength. That’s… good to know, I guess._

“Probably just as well,” I murmured, striving for a lighter tone. “I could really do without any more fucking fractures.” Clockblocker just stared at me. I huffed out an impatient breath. “That was a joke,” I said tartly.

_More or less,_ I added silently.

“Wasn’t all that funny,” he replied.

I snorted. “Coming from you, that’s probably a compliment.”

He stared at me with a wide-eyed, shocked expression, clutching his chest like he’d been stabbed through the heart.

“You wound me,” he said, his voice practically bubbling over with mock-sorrow.

I shook my head, amused by his shenanigans despite myself.

“Don’t tempt me, asshole,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get some more work done while it’s still quiet out there.”

“Spoilsport,” he said, sighing heavily. I grinned to myself as I turned back to my console. I heard him shift around in his seat, and then, “Hey, Talos?”

“Yeah?” I said, pleased that he actually remembered to use my cape name for once.

“Just try not to think about me in a skirt.”

_Oh, for fuck’s sake!_


	50. Atychiphobia 4.05

“What the fuck do you want?”

I tried not to bristle visibly as I looked up at the familiar trooper in front of me, telling myself firmly that it was understandable for Mr Rude to be a little out of sorts right now, especially with capes.

It didn’t help as much as I would’ve hoped.

“I’m here to see Spider and Roman from Aleph squad,” I answered, doing my level best to keep my tone polite. Well, neutral at least. “They’re expecting me.”

He took a step towards me and, fuck, between his attitude and his faint resemblance to Lance, it was all I could do not to immediately twitch into a defensive stance.

“That so?” he spat, all sharp edges and bite. “Why?”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” I snapped before I could stop myself, only just managing to swallow back the rest of my angry retort.

“The hell it isn’t,” he snarled back, taking another step forward and letting the door close behind him. “This isn’t your place. It’s **ours**. You don’t get to barge in whenever the fuck you feel like it. You want in, you’d better give me a damn good reason.”

I could have just told him, I supposed, but something in me rebelled at the idea. I wasn’t going to confess my fuckup to this asshole just because he demanded it. He wasn’t in my chain of command, at least not right now. He didn’t have the fucking right to demand anything from me.

Anyway, if Gimel squad had heard about it, chances were this motherfucker also had some idea, and was just trying to make me jump through hoops because he felt like being an asshole.

Once again, I tried to remind myself that he had a reason to be pissy; that it likely wasn’t personal.

Once again, it didn’t really help.

“I told you,” I said, something of an edge to my own voice despite my best efforts to keep my temper under control. “I’m here to see Spider and Roman from Aleph Squad. They’re expecting me.” I made myself stop and take a breath. “If it really bothers you that much, I can just wait out here while you let them know I’ve arrived. Then we can go somewhere else.”

He clenched his fists, a muscle in his jaw twitching as his gaze darkened with real fury. For a brief, tense moment, I thought he was actually going to hit me. Instead, though, he took a couple of deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself down.

“I am not your fucking servant,” he growled. “Who the hell do you think you are to order me around?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I couldn’t stop myself retorting, even knowing it was stupid; that letting my anger slip its leash, even a little, was only going to make things worse. “I wasn’t ordering-”

No. No, I wasn’t going to do this. _Think calm thoughts._ Smacking this asshole’s head into the wall face-first. _No, something else._ Nothing immediately came to mind. So, instead, I forced myself to think about the trouble I’d get in for starting shit with one of the soldiers, and that was like being dunked in ice water. _Right. Okay. Try to de-escalate._

“Look,” I said. “I really don’t want to intrude. But I was told to come here. So if-”

“Well, you shouldn’t have been,” he snapped. “Not to the squaddies’ fucking rec room.”

Something other than anger flickered in his eyes, then; something raw and agonised. Something I recognised from my father’s eyes. From Lance’s. From my own.

Grief.

Seeing that, recognising it, feeling it all over again drove a spike through my chest, taking my breath away.

Fuck.

I… I didn’t know what to do; what to say. And while I floundered helplessly, uselessly, Mr… the officer continued speaking.

“It’s bad enough that we have to bend over fucking backwards to accommodate a bunch of fucking… walking time bombs. Now you want to force your way into the one place that’s ours. The one place in this whole damn building that, one way or another, isn’t all about capes!” His voice had been gradually rising in volume as he spoke, until he was damn near yelling in my face. Now, though, he broke off, his skin flushed and his breathing ragged. His next words were quiet, but they hit me like a punch to the gut. “The one place I didn’t have to think about the fact that it was freaks like you who got my friends killed.”

“I’m… sorry,” I heard myself say; haltingly, hesitantly. “For your loss.” Fuck me, this was bringing back memories, all of them bad. “I… I know-”

“You know?” he burst out. “You fucking **know**? You don’t know a damn thing! You’re just a… a kid. You…” He trailed off, his expression weirdly kind of stricken as he looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time. “Shit. You’re just a kid.”

He started to say something else, but my pulse was thudding so loudly in my ears I couldn’t make out the words.

My rage was burning too hot for me to care.

“I am not a fucking child,” I spat, glaring. “And you’re not the only one who knows what it’s like to lose people, you self-centred, solipsistic prick. But some of us manage to suck it up and deal without getting our panties in a bunch and unloading our precious fucking feelings onto people who weren’t even there.” He was starting to look pissed again. Fuck that, and fuck him; I didn’t give a shit. I wasn’t this asshole’s fucking punching bag, verbal or otherwise. I had enough of that at home. “Motherfucker,” I bit out, “I wasn’t mocking you. That was genuine fucking human sympathy. Not my fault you were too busy pissing and moaning to recognise it. So maybe you should get your head out of your ass and actually pay some fucking attention.”

When had I clenched my hands into fists? Who the fuck knew? Didn’t matter, anyway. It wasn’t like I was the only one.

“Thought you had to be human to feel human sympathy.”

I went very still. I wasn’t sure I was even breathing.

“The fuck did you say?” I whispered.

“You heard,” he sneered. “Look at you, pretending like you’re not too fucked in the head to care about anything but your next fight. And fuck the collateral damage, am I right? Or is it the more the better?” His lips pursed as if he’d bitten into something sour. Slowly, deliberately, he added, “Fucking freak.”

“That’s the third time you’ve called me that.” The ice in my voice belied the heat of the fury boiling in my veins. “I’m willing to let it go for now, in consideration of your losses. But in future, you’d better watch your fucking tongue. Asshole.”

Unexpectedly, he smiled then, his eyes glittering with something dark and vicious and so, so familiar.

“Are you threatening me, you little bitch?”

Who the fuck was he calling little? _Brick-shithouse-built motherfucker._

“It’s not a threat,” I said flatly. “It’s a warning. Push me and I will push the fuck back.”

“Do it, then,” he said softly; more softly than I would have expected. “Push back. See what happens to you then. I guarantee you won’t like it.”

I believed him. But I was starting to reach the point where I just didn’t care. Except I wasn’t lying about respecting the fact that he was in mourning. Even assholes deserved a proper chance to grieve their losses. And I would be damned if I’d let this motherfucker force me to lose control. If I went for him, it would be on my own goddamn terms. Not his.

Plus, there was also the little matter of my power still being mostly fucked right now.

I opened my mouth to say something, I wasn’t sure what, but was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. I couldn’t see who it was, thanks to Mr Rude-Ass Motherfucker’s bulk, but I recognised the newcomer’s voice as soon as he opened his mouth.

“Hey, MC,” Spider said brightly. “Who was at the- Oh.”

“She says she’s here to see you,” Motherfucker McAsshole said, the words sounding like they emerged through gritted teeth. He held my gaze the whole time. “That true?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes, it is.” Spider sounded nervous.

Asshole McFuckbucket whirled on him suddenly, making him jump.

I took advantage of the opportunity to take a step back, moving so I could keep them both in view. Just in case.

“You invited one of **them** here? After what happened?” he growled. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry, man,” Spider’s tone was conciliatory, his whole posture submissive. I fought not to sneer in open disgust. “I suppose I didn’t think.”

“Guess she rang your bell harder than the medics thought, huh? Knocked the few wits you had right out of your head.”

So he did know what had happened. Which meant he was just being pointlessly, obnoxiously obstructive when he’d demanded to know my reasons for being here.

_Fucking figures._

“Hey, take it easy,” Spider said, actually showing something resembling a spine as he stood his ground and met the other man’s gaze. “I already apologised.” And then, so quietly I could barely even hear the words, “Shaw and Fisher were my friends too, you know, even if they weren’t in my squad.”

Silence fell like a stone, like a shroud; the air rendered viscous with tension and too many fucking feelings to name. Witnessing this made me feel… uncomfortable. Twitchy. I thought maybe I should have turned away, but I couldn’t seem to make myself move.

(I had to keep my eyes on them, just in case shit went south. I was outnumbered here, and if I couldn’t count on my power…)

If I was… home… If it was Dad’s men, his soldiers, who were mourning the loss of their own, I could have, would have, said something. Sat with them a while. Maybe raised a glass to toast the dead. I would have been… maybe not welcomed, not the same way Lance was, but… accepted. Their loss… it would have been my loss, too. Had been, even.

But here, now… I felt like an intruder.

_I’m not one of them._

The thought jolted me like electricity; a shock of realisation. It was like something snapped into place in my mind, something I’d already known, but hadn’t really understood until this moment.

I’d been thinking of the Protectorate and the Wards and the PRT as one big government-backed gang. But it… wasn’t, was it? At least, not the way I’d thought. It was… divided. Split right down the middle. There were capes. And then there were the men and women who trained to fight capes. I… I was used to thinking of myself as a soldier. Which I was, still, no matter how they dressed it up and called it something else. But… I wasn’t one of these soldiers. I couldn’t ever be one of them, no matter how I might have… No matter how familiar it seemed sometimes.

Because I was a cape.

A parahuman.

(A fucking freak.)

And that made me feel…

I didn’t know what it was; what nameless emotion was turning and turning in the widening gyre within me. All I knew was that it hurt.

_I don’t… I can’t think about this right now._

So I shoved it to the back of my mind and did my level best to ignore it.

Anyway, I really couldn’t afford the distraction. Especially now that Roman had joined the other two.

( _Three against one_ , I couldn’t help thinking. Three against one, and their word against mine if things got ugly. And who the fuck would believe the new girl, the fuck-up, over three veteran soldiers?)

“What’s going on?” Roman asked cautiously. His gaze lingered briefly on me as he glanced around, but his question seemed directed at his comrades in arms.

“Just a misunderstanding,” Spider said quickly.

Roman frowned, but before he could say anything else, Mr Rude Fucker — ‘MC,’ apparently, but fuck if I was calling him that — interrupted.

“Fuck this,” he bit out, his face twisting in an expression of disgust. “I’m going to get drunk.” He turned on his heel and started to stride away, muttering, “Not like I’m going to be on duty anytime soon.”

I tensed a little as he drew level with me, but he just kept going without so much as a glance in my direction.

“Take care of yourself,” Spider called after him. “And stay in touch, yeah?”

A grunt was the only response.

Once the asshole had turned the corner out of sight, Spider ambled over towards me. Once again, his whole demeanour was conciliatory, even apologetic.

“Sorry about that,” he said, giving me a rueful-looking smile. “MC’s a bit… Well, he’s been through a lot lately and…” He trailed off, took a breath, and tried again. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said trying not to bristle at the implication that I couldn’t handle a little hostility. _He means well,_ I told myself. _He probably just feels guilty._ I made myself smile, hoping my expression didn’t look as awkward as it felt. “That’s what I wanted to ask you, actually.” I glanced over at Roman, who’d also moved closer and was watching this little exchange with an unreadable expression. “Both of you.” Okay, I could do this. Hopefully without stuffing both feet right in my mouth. “I’m-”

“Let’s continue this conversation somewhere else,” Roman said, his tone abrupt but not harsh. He started walking, leaving Spider and me little choice but to follow him. I noted with concern that he seemed to be moving a little stiffly.

“No sense standing around in the corridor, I guess,” Spider said. He laughed a little, but it sounded brittle around the edges. His face was noticeably bruised, especially around his left eye, and there was a scabbed over cut on his cheekbone. Had I done that, too?

Shit.

We didn’t go far, and we spent the rest of the short journey in silence. I was trying to tell myself that I probably wasn’t being led into a trap, no matter what my instincts were screaming. Even so, I was relieved when Roman wedged open the door of the room he led us to. It seemed to be some kind of waiting room, judging by the layout. It was probably weak of me, but I was pleased to see that some of the Abominations Masquerading as Chairs that seemed to infest the PRT HQ had been messily moved aside. In their place stood chairs that, while a little old and battered-looking, quite probably weren’t intended to double as torture devices.

Except none of them were actually positioned by the door.

Comfort versus tactical positioning: not exactly a contest.

Fuck.

“Take a seat,” Roman said. He and Spider settled themselves in the comfy chairs. I perched on the edge of one of the Abominations, cursing internally. “For future reference,” he continued, not unkindly. “It’s probably best not to just show up at the rec room. If you want to get ahold of one of us, there are better ways.”

I blinked at him for a moment, caught off guard.

“But-” I started to say, only to be interrupted by Spider.

“I told Talos to come by,” he said. “Lysowski called through to say she wanted to talk to us, and since we were both there anyway…” He shrugged a little awkwardly. “I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

“I see.” Roman’s tone was neutral. The annoyed look he shot at his squad mate, though, was anything but. I wondered uneasily if the two of them would be having words later. He didn’t show any sign of irritation when he focused his attention back on me, though. Then again, he didn’t show any sign of much of anything. _Talk about a poker face._ “Well, at least you know now.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, not really knowing what else to say.

Hellfire and damnation. I’d thought this would be simple. I’d meet them, I’d see how they were, I’d apologise for smacking them, or whatever, they’d decide whatever payback was necessary and then we’d hopefully be square. Except the whole encounter with Mr Fucking Rude had really put me off my stride.

“So,” Spider said brightly, while I struggled to get my thoughts back on track. “What did you want to talk to us about?” He grinned suddenly, gesturing to his black eye. “Wanted to check out your handiwork?”

I winced before I could stop myself.

“Something like that,” I muttered, and then almost winced again at how that must’ve sounded. “I mean, I wanted to see how you were. I… don’t really remember what happened, but I know you were only trying to help.” Shit. Did it sound like I was making excuses? Trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I was fucking this up, I forced myself to press onwards. “I’m sorry for lashing out like that. I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.”

“Eh, it happens,” Spider said, still grinning. “This isn’t my worst war wound. Not even my worst friendly fire incident.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Did you hear about the time Triumph-”

“That’s enough,” Roman said sharply. “You know how OB feels about gossip.”

Frustratingly, Spider actually fell silent. Dammit! Now I was intrigued. What had Triumph done?

“Well, anyway,” he continued after a moment, briefly getting my hopes up before dashing them with, “At least you didn’t crush me like a grape. Right, Roman?”

“I wasn’t crushed.” Roman muttered, rolling his eyes.

“The docs thought you might have a couple of cracked ribs for a bit though, right?”

Even as I cringed inside, I couldn’t help thinking, with a certain amount of resentment, that Spider’s cheerful tone was more than a little inappropriate for the subject matter.

“Well, I didn’t.” Roman looked at me. “A few bruises. Nothing serious.” He frowned slightly. “Completely fucked up my armour, though. They had to cut me out of it.”

He showed more emotion about the armour than he had about potentially cracked ribs.

“Sorry,” I said, not really knowing what else to say. Should I offer to try to fix it? But even if my power wasn’t fucked, I wasn’t sure I could. Breaking shit was far easier than putting it back together again, after all. I took a breath, trying to get my thoughts in order. “So… Are we good?”

“Yeah, of course,” Spider said, laughing a little, but it wasn’t really his response I was interested in.

Roman gave me a speculative look, almost like I’d said something interesting. After what felt like a lifetime, he gave a short, sharp nod.

“It was an accident. You apologised. Far as I’m concerned, we’re square.”

I hadn’t realised how tense I’d been until I felt myself relax fractionally.

“Good,” I said.

“Was that it?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then I’m heading back. See you around, Talos.” He got to his feet and headed out, pausing in the doorway to look back at the still-seated Spider with a slight frown. “You coming?”

“I’ll be along shortly,” Spider said. “You go on ahead.”

Roman’s frown deepened, but all he said was, “Just try not to say anything that’ll piss OB off.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Spider waved a hand dismissively. Roman rolled his eyes, but left without another word. I studied Spider curiously.

“Did you want something?” I asked.

He smiled at me, but the expression looked a little rueful. “I figured I owed you an apology of my own.”

I tried not to frown.

“Oh?”

“Telling you to come to the rec room. I didn’t realise people were going to be so uptight about it. I mean, we’re all on the same side, yeah?”

The same side, sure. But not, apparently, the same team.

“It’s fine,” I said, trying to keep my resentment from my voice and expression. “No real harm done, I guess.” Apart from an angry squaddie who now had a specific grudge against me, personally, in addition to the (not entirely unwarranted) chip on his fucking shoulder he seemed to have about capes in general. Another fucking enemy I didn’t need. But, yeah, apart from that, everything was just fucking peachy. “And I know now.”

No fucking way would I make that mistake again.

(Was it weak of me to hope that Gimel squad would still talk to me every now and then? I mean, it wasn’t like I needed the company or anything, but… I liked them. And I kind of liked hanging around with them.)

“Yeah,” he said, nodding with what looked weirdly like relief. “Yeah, it could’ve been worse. And MC will simmer down, you’ll see.”

I strongly doubted that, but I just nodded like I didn’t think Spider was either painfully naive or talking out of his ass.

“So, was that it?” I asked, trying not to be obvious about checking my watch. I didn’t want to be late back to the console.

“Not quite.” He had that fucking stupid little rueful smile again. “I also wanted to say sorry about letting that asshole with a camera get in your face on Saturday.”

_That asshole with…?_ I remembered a searing flash of light; a few slurred words. _Oh,_ ** _that_** _motherfucker._

“What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral. I wasn’t entirely successful, resentment lending a bit of an edge to my words, but a little sharpness wasn’t entirely unjustified. He’d been supposed to make sure I could do my fucking job without unnecessary distractions.

“Got distracted by some kids with more curiosity than survival instinct. Fucking teenagers.” He shook his head with what looked like disgust, and then froze, his expression almost comically worried. “Uh, no offence.”

“None taken,” I said, amused despite my irritation. “Do you think the fucker paid those kids to act as a distraction?”

Spider looked at me like I’d just started speaking in tongues.

“Could’ve done, I guess. Didn’t really think about it.” Christ. The fuck were the PRT teaching their troopers? “But, anyway, I dropped the ball.” He grimaced. “As the old bastard informed me in no uncertain terms afterwards.”

_Do not feel sorry for this naive idiot,_ I told myself sternly. _However his superior disciplined him, he brought it on himself._

Even so, I couldn’t help feeling bad for him, a little. Not enough to forgive him, though. Well, not unless…

“Maybe you can make it up to me,” I ventured, watching him carefully to see his reaction.

“Okay,” he said cautiously, frowning. “How?”

_At least he isn’t quite as naive as Chris,_ I couldn’t help thinking, amused. _He didn’t promise ‘anything.’_

I checked to make sure no one was wandering past the open door, or even just hanging around in the corridor.

“What’s up with OB and Assault?” I asked. “Seemed to me on Saturday like there was a little… hostility there. At least from OB.”

There were other things I could have asked, but this had been nagging at me, and it was something he had a good chance of knowing. Plus Spider did seem the type to gossip. Even if this was something he should really keep shtum about, I figured there was a better than even chance he’d tell me anyway.

“Ohhhhh, shit.” He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “That’s a real can of worms, right there.”

“It’s fine if you can’t tell me,” I said. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and drummed his fingers restlessly on the seat, the expression on his face really fucking conflicted. Without warning, he practically launched himself from his seat, crossing the room to plop himself down in the chair — well, Abomination Masquerading as a Chair — next to me.

I hoped he didn’t notice the way I’d tensed instinctively at his approach.

“You did not hear this from me,” he said. Despite the quietness of his words, there was an almost eager note in his voice.

“My lips are sealed,” I assured him. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Good!” he said, brightening visibly. Fuck, he really did want to talk. “So…” He paused then, and the eagerness in his eyes made it pretty clear this was meant for emphasis.“Hypothetically…”

“Hypothetically,” I echoed, when he seemed to want a response of some kind. “Of course.”

“Say there was a villain. A breakout specialist. A good one. And say that one day he bit off a little more than he could chew, and got himself caught.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering when he was going to get to the point.

“Now, hypothetically, say that the Protectorate got a new hero around that time…”

Was he saying what I thought he was saying?

Huh.

That was interesting.But it sure as shit would have been the practical thing to do. Dad had seriously considered working with Renegade after all, even after the sick fuck killed Adams. And Assault was a pretty powerful cape. I could certainly see why they’d want him on board, even with whatever it was he’d done in his former life.

_Better to have someone like that on the inside pissing out, than on the outside pissing in…_

But they must have had some way of keeping him in line; some way of ensuring that he didn’t fuck them over every opportunity he got. I wondered what that was.

“Does this… hypothetical former villain have a body count?” I asked cautiously.

Spider grimaced. For the first time since he’d decided to answer my question, he didn’t look like he was laughing at some secret joke.

“No, but you fling vehicles around like toys and people get hurt. Sometimes seriously.”

And by ‘people,’ he meant PRT soldiers. Yeah, I could see why there might be a certain amount of lingering hostility there. At least among the people who knew. But that raised another question.

“In this entirely theoretical scenario, I would’ve thought steps would be taken to keep certain details about the new hero under wraps.”

I couldn’t imagine the high-ups would want something like this being spread around the rank and file. Pretty fucking bad for team cohesion, I would’ve thought. Not to mention morale.

_And fuck knows what would happen if the civilians ever found out._

The Protectorate had a reputation to maintain, after all.

“Sure. But information wants to be free, you know? And, hypothetically, someone who’d tangled with the person in question — or who knew people who’d tangled with them — could certainly put two and two together and come up with something in the region of four.”

_Especially if some of the other soldiers gossip like you apparently do,_ I couldn’t help thinking.

Was it hypocritical of me to disapprove of a quality I was taking advantage of? Undoubtedly. Did I give a shit? Fuck, no.

“I see.”

I kept my expression as neutral as I could while I tried to figure out the confusing mixture of fucking feelings currently churning away inside me.

“Aww.” Spider seemed oddly disappointed. “No shocked gasp? No wide eyes?” He shook his head sadly. “Kid, you must have a great poker face.”

“Not a fucking kid,” I told him, but my preoccupation meant there was no real heat behind it. Even so, he waved his hands in a vaguely conciliatory gesture.

“Sure. Of course not. No insult intended.”

Did he mean that, or was he just saying whatever he thought was necessary to soothe the savage cape? Either way, it was probably safer to take the words at face value.

“None taken,” I said. “And thanks for the information.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said cheerfully, and then grimaced. “Seriously, don’t. I could get in some serious shit if it gets back to OB.”

_Didn’t stop you from opening your mouth though, did it?_ I guessed some people just didn’t learn. I tried not to dwell on the fact that I was encouraging his bad habits. Too late to worry about that now, though. I was hardly going to rat him out.

“You didn’t tell me shit,” I said dryly. “This was a purely hypothetical discussion, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was,” he said, plastering a mock-innocent look on his face.

“And I wasn’t planning on saying anything to anyone else,” I continued, in case that wasn’t reassurance enough.

I knew what I was going to do, though. At the earliest available opportunity, I was going to find out everything I could about the Protectorate so-called hero Assault.

_Who were you?_ I wondered. _Was it really as simple as Spider made it sound? Did you just decide to switch teams?_

And what, if anything, did this information mean for me?

* * * * *

“Oh, there you are!”

I stifled a groan at the sound of Dennis’ voice as, once again, coffee proved to be my downfall. Not that he couldn’t have tracked me down to my room, but at least then I’d have a locked door between me and the outside world.

“What is it?” I asked, with only a little bit of perfectly justified irritation.

“You’ve got a mask on?” I gave him a pointed look. “Oh, good. Just checking.”

I slid the bookmark into my textbook and set it down on the table, absently lining it up with the edges.

“The alarm went off,” I said. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I be masked up?”

Although I couldn’t help but notice his own mask was dangling from his hand. So… maybe the Dallon sisters? It would be nice to see Victoria, I supposed, although Amy, not so much. Or maybe it was a Protectorate member.

(Was it… Could it be Miss Militia? Shit! I was in no way ready for that.)

“Easy, Princess,” Dennis said, making a conciliatory gesture that would have seemed a fuck of a lot more genuine if it wasn’t for his words. And the utterly shit-eating grin plastered over his face. (I totally wasn’t imagining that **fucking** picture again. Not even a little.) “Just making sure.”

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” I muttered, irritably. “The fuck do you want, anyway? If it’s coffee, the pot isn’t ready yet, and if you just came here to annoy me, I don’t have time for your shit. I have work to do.”

“Did someone say coffee?” came another, vaguely familiar voice. A red-costumed man leaned around the doorframe. “Now you’re talking my language.”

Oh. Of course it was him. Of course it fucking was. God forbid I would have the chance to actually process what Spider had told me before coming face to face with the man himself.

“First of all, no need to be rude, Princess Prickly-Pants,” Dennis said, as if Assault hadn’t spoken and as if I hadn’t just told him not to fucking call me that stupid goddamned nickname. “And second, you’ve got visitors.” He gestured towards the doorway, where another costumed figure now stepped into view. “Do I need to introduce Assault and Battery? Or did you manage not to scramble your memory of meeting them?”

“Asshole,” I couldn’t help muttering, oddly relieved at the flare of irritation that helped me conceal the sudden burst of unease. I rearranged my face into what was probably the most awkward fucking smile as I turned my attention to my alleged visitors. “Good evening…” _Not in my chain of command and we’re off-duty._ “Battery. Assault. Did you want something?”

I couldn’t imagine what it might have been. Unless I’d somewhat managed to piss them off during the blank period between everything going dark and waking up in the infirmary. Or the somewhat fuzzy time just before that. But… no. That was probably just paranoia talking.

Probably.

In any case, Battery smiled warmly at me as she stepped around Dennis and into the kitchen.

“We just wanted to-”

“Hey, you said it wrong!” Assault pouted exaggeratedly as he moved up to stand behind her. “It’s not Battery and Assault, it’s Assault and Battery. See?” He flashed his teeth in a brilliant smile. “Just rolls off the tongue.”

“Whatever,” Battery said flatly. “In any case, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…” She gave Assault what I assumed was a pointed look from beneath her mask, but he seemed either completely oblivious or merely unfazed. Turning back to me, her grimace softened back into a smile, and she said, “We were in the area and thought we’d stop by. See how you’re doing. You were in pretty bad shape on Saturday.”

It was starting to feel pretty fucking crowded in here, I had way too much to do to be standing around socialising, and it was taking a fuck of a lot of willpower not to ask Assault how the fuck he’d ended up switching sides, but I shoved all that aside and made myself return Battery’s smile.

“I’m doing okay now, thanks,” I said. _Aside from the little matter of my power still being mostly fucked,_ I stopped myself from adding. _Fuck, could I sound any more awkward?_ I cast around for something else to say. “Better than I was on Saturday night, that’s for fucking sure.” A memory of Battery’s voice, high and scandalised, flashed into the forefront of my mind, and a sudden flare of worry made me add, “I’m afraid my memory of our conversation then is a little fuzzy, but I… hope I didn’t say anything out of line.”

“No, not at all,” she said, sounding as if she actually meant that.

“And you were surprisingly coherent up until you started slurring your words,” Assault put in. I eyed him cautiously, unsure whether or not that was mockery or a compliment. Maybe a little of both? Before I could work out what I could say that wouldn’t be awkward as fuck, he added, “But, quick sidenote, someone said something about coffee?”

“Yeah, I just put a fresh pot on,” I said, relieved to be on something like solid ground. “It should be ready soon. Would any of you like some?”

“If it isn’t any trouble.”

“Hell to the yeah!”

“Is it your rocket fuel special?”

As I drew breath to address the overlapping responses, Assault and Battery both turned to look at Dennis.

“Rocket fuel?” Assault asked, sounding amused.

I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s exaggerating.”

“Am not!” Dennis drew himself up, shooting me an indignant look. “I swear, that witch’s brew of yours nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Then you’re a fucking pussy,” I retorted. “I didn’t make it that much stronger than usual. Anyway, given how fucking wrecked you were, you probably needed the extra jolt.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have kept me up half the night.”

“I kept you up? Fuck off, asshole! You’re the one who knocked on my door, remember?”

_Stupid fucking nightmares._

“Well, you’re the one who got competitive and kept demanding another round.”

“I wouldn’t have gotten competitive if you hadn’t kept fucking taunting me.”

“Aw, that wasn’t taunting, that was just… friendly banter.” He smirked suddenly. “Trust me, Princess, if I was taunting you, you’d know about it.”

“Stop fucking calling me that, dogfucker!” I snapped, exasperated. “Or I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

“Promises, promises,” he practically purred, the smirk on his lips almost exactly like…

_Oh, for fuck’s sake!_

“Look,” I said, trying in vain to pretend like my cheeks weren’t on fire; like that fucking asshole with his smug fucking smirkiness didn’t know exactly where my mind had just gone. “Do you want coffee, or not? It’s a simple fucking question.”

This wasn’t backing down. This was… biding my time. Regrouping. Waiting for the right moment to enact vengeance most dire.

“Depends,” he said. “Is it your rocket fuel special? Because I would actually like to sleep tonight, and that’s a bit hard to do if my heart’s going a mile a minute.”

“No, it’s just normal strength.” I refrained from adding that I was planning on sleeping too, after all. Once I’d completed my objectives for the evening.

“Then yes, I would love some coffee.” Now he’d successfully managed to wind me up, the asshole looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Well, until he winked at me and added, “You know how I like it.”

I was ridiculously proud of myself for managing not to splutter.

“Asshole,” I muttered, glowering.

He shook his head chidingly. “Now is that any kind of language to use in front of your guests? And you wonder why I call you Princess Potty-Mouth.”

_Oh, fuck!_

I hadn’t exactly forgotten about the two Protectorate capes, but he’d pissed me off so much that… No. No excuses. I’d fucked up. I just hoped they weren’t too pissed off about my lack of respect.

“Uh, sorry about that,” I said to them, cringing inside at how stilted I sounded.

“No need to apologise,” Battery said and, again, she sounded like she meant that. Maybe she and Assault just had their ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine down. (Maybe she was his handler. That would have explained why they seemed to end up paired together so much.)

“Yeah, don’t stop on our account,” Assault said, his broad grin almost giving Dennis’ a run for its money. “This is the best entertainment I’ve had all day.” He took an exaggerated look around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and then lowered his voice mock-conspiratorially to add, “Sounds like you two had quite a night.”

I froze, my face burning and my stomach twisting uncomfortably as I belatedly realised what the exchange must have sounded like. I didn’t know if he meant that, or if he was just saying it in jest, but I found my pulse racing as I desperately tried and failed to find the right words.

“No,” was all I managed to scrape together. “That wasn’t… It was just…”

“Aw, you’re blushing.” Assault sounded positively delighted as he took a step towards me, studying my treacherous face. I kept myself still, caught between the drive to snarl at him, and to shrink back, away. When he added, “That’s adorable,” it was all I could do not to smack the bastard.

“Ix-nay on the dorable-ay,” Dennis broke in, startling me. I glanced over to see giving Assault a surprisingly serious look. “Talos actually hates that, and not in a fun-to-poke-at way. Right?”

It took me a moment to realise that last part was addressed to me.

“Yeah,” I muttered, half-wishing the ground would swallow me up. “And we were talking about computer games, that’s all.”

“She’s really bad at them,” Dennis said, “but also ridiculously competitive. Hence staying up half the night trying — and failing — to beat me.” I was almost too relieved at the unexpected backup to feel annoyed at the not entirely inaccurate slight to my gaming skills. Almost. But even that minor irritation faded when added, “Anyway, about that coffee…”

“Looks like it’s just about done,” I said, grateful for the subject change.

Before I could ask Assault and Battery if they took milk and — ugh — sugar, Battery spoke up.

“You two might as well go through to the Hub,” she said to Assault and Clockblocker. “I’ll help Talos with the drinks.” She glanced at me with a small smile. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t like I really needed the help, but I didn’t want to be rude. Anyway, it wasn’t like I minded; not really. “Thanks.”

In what seemed like almost no time at all, she’d shooed the guys away, leaving the two of us alone in the kitchen.

“I’ll get the milk. Do you want to get the mugs?” She was already heading for the fridge.

“Sure,” I said, again.

As I opened the cupboard, my fingertips sliding on the lacquered wood, a little, niggling sensation fluttered at the edges of my awareness. It was like a loose tooth or a scabbed over wound; like the pins and needles prickling of a limb gone to sleep after hours in the same position. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help poking at it, fractionally loosing the stranglehold I had on my senses. For a brief, glorious instant, it was like clouds parting, like the sun burning away the mist, like a light being turned on in a darkened room. I was… connected again, instead of drifting through the world like a ghost, half-blind, deaf and numb.

And then I tightened the noose again, sealing myself back behind the barrier of my own skin, unable to stop my breath catching in my throat a little at the loss.

(And maybe a little at the needles and knives that followed in its wake. Although I fancied that the stabbing pain was duller than it had been; that maybe my power was finally starting to unfuck itself. Maybe. Or so I hoped.)

“Are you okay?” Battery’s voice was sharp with concern.

I cursed my weakness, forcing a smile onto my lips as I met her visored gaze as best as I could.

“I’m fine,” I said. Her lips pursed, my stomach sinking as I realised she wasn’t going to accept that answer at face value. “Migraines,” I added, my tone deliberately light, and just a little rueful. “The gift that keeps on fucking giving.”

Suddenly realising I was standing there like an idiot, I retrieved the mugs, this time resisting the urge to open up my senses when I closed the cupboard again. Battery watched me as I moved past to set the mugs down on the counter, her hands held out in front of her as if she half-expected me to go ass over apex.

“Do you need to sit down?”

“No, it’s okay.” I tried to infuse the words with all the conviction I could muster. “It was just a brief twinge.”

To my surprise and relief, all she said to that was, “Okay.”

No asking if I was sure, no telling me I should look after myself, no unwanted sympathy. Just a simple, straightforward acceptance that I knew how to assess my own condition.

It was about fucking time.

I set about pouring coffee into the mugs. Battery added milk and sugar, as required. The two of us made an efficient little production line.

“You know, Assault was just joking around,” she said, apropos of nothing. “He didn’t mean any harm.”

Fuck me. Had my reaction really been that obvious?

“I know that,” I said cautiously. “I wasn’t offended.” Horrified and embarrassed, maybe, but not offended.

“Well, feel free to tell him if he oversteps,” she said. “God knows I do.”

_Yeah, because pissing him off would be such a great move for me._

But I locked my misgivings behind my teeth and nodded politely. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Battery retrieved a tray from the cupboard — she clearly knew her way around the kitchen — and loaded up the drinks. I tidied away the milk and washed up the spoons.

She went to pick up the tray, but then paused, pulling back and turning to face me.

“Do you want me to have a word with Dennis?” she asked quietly. “Tell him to dial it back a bit?”

The fuck was she trying to say? Did I really seem so pathetic that I couldn’t handle an irritating teammate by myself?

“No, it’s fine,” I said, my cheeks burning with humiliation. “We had a talk about it already. He’s making an effort to be less off an asshole, and I’m making an effort not to beat the shit out of him. It seems to be working out so far.”

She studied me for a moment, and then nodded. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am,” I said, relieved. “But thanks.”

She smiled at me and picked up the tray, heading out of the kitchen. I gathered up my books and followed along behind her.

Okay. All I had to do now was hold a conversation with two Protectorate capes without sticking both feet in my mouth. And definitely without blurting out any awkward questions about Assault’s background.

_I can do that. Right?_

Despite all the previous evidence to the contrary.

“What have you got there?” Assault asked, gesturing at the books in my arms as he accepted the mug Battery handed him.

“Homework.” I set them down on the chair next to me, taking my own mug with a hopefully not too awkward smile and a murmured, “Thanks.”

“You mean you haven’t finished it already?” Dennis shook his head. “For shame, slacker.”

“I had other shit to do earlier,” I said, my pulse picking up as I tried in vain to tell myself that I wasn’t falling behind; that I wasn’t failing. “But I still have time. It’s not due in yet.”

“I was joking,” he said, an odd, almost pitying expression on his face. “No one in their right mind would ever seriously call you a slacker.”

“That doesn’t exclude you,” I muttered, taking refuge in irritation.

“Rude. Also, you work too hard.”

“I really don’t.” But that came out sounding more worried than I’d intended, and so I hastily plastered a disdainful look on my face and added, “Anyway, like I said before, you wouldn’t know hard work if it bit you on the ass.”

He smirked, because of course he fucking did, but whatever response he would have made was headed off when Assault burst into laughter.

“It’s déjà vu all over again,” he said, and lightly elbowed Battery in the side. “Don’t you think so, Puppy?”

_Puppy? Really?_

I admired Battery’s self-control in not responding with violence. Or at all. In fact, she completely ignored both the question, and him, to focus her attention on me.

“So, when did the infirmary discharge you?”

“Sunday.” I should’ve just stopped there, but frustration made me add, “But they’re making me have check ups every day, and I’m not supposed to use my power at all until they clear me.”

“They just want to make sure you’re okay, you know.”

“I know that,” I said, hoping she didn’t think I was whining. “But I’m not even allowed to exercise!”

Dr Hart had even threatened to have my gym access temporarily revoked. Like she didn’t trust me to follow orders.

“That must be hard,” she said, sympathetically. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I couldn’t keep up my exercise routine.”

“I have some suggestions,” Assault murmured, and my cheeks burned at the slyly suggestive note in his voice.

“Ass!” Battery snapped.

“What?” Now he sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

For my part, I just sat there, frozen with discomfort as I tried to will the flush from my face. Fuck, this was awkward.

“Hey, Talos,” Dennis suddenly said. “I forgot to ask, how was your meeting with PR?”

_Oh, thank fuck._

Maybe not the happiest subject for me right now, but I’d take what I could get.

“It went okay, I guess,” I said. “More or less.”

“More or less?” Assault asked, sounding interested.

“Yeah.” I sounded rather more glum than I’d intended, but I had trouble bringing myself to care. “Ms Price began with a post-mortem of my debut.”

“I thought it went well,” Battery said. “What was the problem?”

I sighed, taking a fortifying sip of coffee before replying.

“Apparently, just because my costume’s made of metal, that doesn’t mean I should act like a robot.”

Dennis raised his eyebrows. “She actually said that?”

I shrugged. “I’m paraphrasing.”

“Wow,” Dennis said, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see the day when PR and I were on the same page. Clearly, these must be the end times.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I grumbled. “Apparently I’m supposed to try to project ‘reassurance and approachability’ or some shit. And also strength, which I get, but in a way that ‘isn’t too intimidating.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”

“And did she happen to say anything about your, uh, salty language?” he asked, a sly little smirk on his stupid face.

I scowled before I could stop myself.

“Apparently it’s not appropriate to call a motherfucker a motherfucker when he shoves a camera in your face.”

Fuck. Yet another thing I was going to have to be careful about. I would’ve wondered if I was going to be disciplined for it, but given how pissed off Carlos was with me right now, what was one minor infraction more on my tally? It wasn’t like he needed another excuse.

(Icy fingers trailed down my spine and I had to suppress a stupid shiver.)

For some reason, Assault and Dennis both laughed.

Battery sighed softly. “Unfortunately, cameras — like inopportune requests for autographs and horribly inappropriate and personal questions — are something you’re going to have to get used to. As is the fact that PR people often have… let’s call it a different set of priorities to us.” Her lips twisted in a grimace. “They’re a necessary evil, I suppose.”

“Amen to that,” Dennis said, raising his mug in a toast to Battery. “At least the evil part.” He took a sip of his drink, eyeing her curiously over his mug. “I’m a bit surprised to hear you say that, though, with all the outreach stuff you do. I thought you were their golden girl.”

“I did say a necessary evil,” she said dryly.

“You’re all being unfair,” Assault said, surprising me. And surprising Dennis, too, by the way his eyebrows lifted. Battery just shook her head and drank her coffee.

“Oh?” Dennis said. “Do tell.”

“It’s pretty simple,” Assault said, smirking. “We’re all heroes, right?” Hearing him, of all people, say that, it was all I could do not to choke on my coffee. “What, to the average member of the public, separates us from the villains?”

Battery sighed heavily. “Why don’t you just tell us? You know you want to.”

“It’s like you know me, Puppy,” he murmured, leaning in close to her and patting her knee.

“Don’t make me hurt you, Ass.” Her words were carved in ice.

His smirk widened. “Promises, promises.”

“Get a room, guys,” Dennis called out before she could respond. “Or you’ll make Talos blush.”

I only just bit back a ‘fuck off, asshole,’ contenting myself with a death glare as I tried to pretend my cheeks were burning with annoyance, not embarrassment.

_Okay, they are definitely fucking._

I couldn’t think of any other reason why she wouldn’t smack him for putting his hand on her leg. Someone did that to me, I’d break their fucking fingers.

The jury was still out on whether or not she was also his handler.

Fortunately for the sake of my poor cheeks, Assault’s expression sobered and he sat up straight again. (Albeit not without a final squeeze of Battery’s knee that I pretended I hadn’t noticed.)

“It’s simple,” he said. “They know that we’re there to protect them from the scary villain capes. PR are the ones who tell them that and, more importantly, make them believe it. The job isn’t an easy one, and they’re damned good at it. They could use a little love. So, if you want to keep playing the hero, make nice with PR. Be a good example. I’ve got stories about those. Or don’t, and become an object lesson.” He shrugged carelessly. “I’ve got a few stories about those, too, if you want.”

Was that why he joined the Protectorate? To avoid becoming one of those object lessons? I had so many fucking questions right now, and I couldn’t ask a single goddamn one of them. Not before doing some research.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.” Battery’s voice was stiff, her mouth set in a tight, angry line. Was she pissed at what he’d said? At the… the flirting and touching? Both?

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be inappropriate,” he said lightly, smirking at her before turning his attention to Dennis and me. “Sorry, kids. The boss has spoken. But I will leave you with one pearl of wisdom. Be a sterling example of heroism like me, and you might receive half as many marriage proposals from adoring fans as I do.”

Battery opened her mouth to speak, but shook her head instead, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards in a small smile.

“You never change, do you?” I couldn’t quite decipher her tone.

“And I never will,” he replied, and though his smile was smugness given form, his voice was oddly soft.

I felt weirdly, uneasily restless. Probably because I should have been focusing on getting through the metric fucktonne of work I had to do instead of sitting here being fucking sociable.

“Seriously, guys,” Dennis complained. “Get a room. There are impressionable youngsters here.”

“Where?” Assault asked, laughing.

“There!” Dennis pointed at me. Because of course he did.

“Asshole,” I muttered, trying not to shift uncomfortably.

Assault and Battery started to speak at the same time, only for both of them to break off again. Battery got to her feet, and even Assault straightened from his slouch. They were obviously listening to something, presumably over their comms.

“Battery and Assault here,” Battery said crisply. “We’re at the PRT HQ and can leave now. Over.” She was silent for a few moments, and then nodded, even though whoever was on the other end couldn’t see it. “Understood. Will check in once we’re en route. Out.”

“You said it wrong,” Assault said, but there wasn’t any real feeling behind it.

“What’s going on?” Dennis asked, unusually serious.

“Riot with suspected parahuman involvement,” Battery said in a clipped voice, setting her mug down on the tray.

“Where?” I heard myself ask.

“Warehouse downtown. Empire territory.”

“Want to come along?”

I stared at Assault as he set his own mug down and stood, wondering if I’d misheard. Apparently Battery was wondering the same thing, judging by the way her head snapped around and her jaw fell open slightly.

I managed to find my voice. “Excuse me?”

He grinned briefly, but his tone was serious when he said, “Not into the fray, but you could stay in the PRT van with the driver. Observe from close up. It would be a useful experience.”

Cudgelling my brain into gear, I opened my mouth to accept — because what the fuck else was I going to do? — but Battery recovered before I could speak.

“No, absolutely not,” she said, her voice sharp. She softened it slightly as she turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, Talos, but it wouldn’t be appropriate,” but that did nothing to stop the shame and humiliation prickling over my skin.

“I understand,” I said, striving for a brisk, businesslike tone despite the fact I felt about an inch tall.

Battery gave me a tight smile. “Good. Anyway, we need to go. Come on, Assault.” On that note, she turned on her heel and strode briskly away. Assault nodded at us and fell in behind her.

“Bye,” Dennis said.

“Bye,” I echoed, a beat later.

“Goodbye, kids,” Assault called back over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Caught between fury and mortification, all I could do was glower at his retreating back.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Dennis said quietly, once the two of them were out of sight. I gave him a suspicious look, but for once, he wasn’t actually smirking at me. “And Battery didn’t mean anything bad by vetoing the ride-along.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one who’d just been told he wasn’t fucking good enough to go out in the field.

But I really didn’t want to talk about that right now.

“Assault and Battery are totally fucking, aren’t they?” I blurted out.

Dennis laughed softly. “Don’t be shy, Astrid. Tell me what you really want to know.”

“Asshole,” I muttered. I shoved myself to my feet, resisting the urge to press a hand to my side as my bruised ribs complained at the sudden movement. Draining the remainder of my coffee, I set it down on the tray with the others. “Are you done with your mug? I’ll clear these up. Because, fuck knows, you’re not going to do it.”

“Hey,” he said, and then there was movement in my peripheral vision. I moved to block the incoming blow, already prepared to lash out in retaliation… but the blow never came. Dennis froze in the act of reaching out to set his mug down on the tray, his eyes wide and startled. We stared at each other for a moment, and then I stepped back, trying in vain to still my jangling nerves.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “I don’t react well to sudden movements.”

“Duly noted,” he said, and completed the interrupted action, keeping his movements slow and his gaze on me. It felt like humiliation was immolating me from the inside out. I waited for him to move out of the way so I could take the tray, but to my surprise, he picked it up.

“What are you doing?” I asked, cringing inside at how suspicious I sounded.

“What does it look like?” He gave me a lopsided smile. “If I deal with this, you can get a head start on your work. And then maybe you’ll actually get to sleep at a reasonable hour.”

This was fucking bizarre.

“I’m not planning on going without sleep,” I said, trying to cover up my discomfort with irritation. “Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk, you fucking hypocrite.”

“I thought you were supposed to be watching your language,” he murmured. Before I could muster up a suitable response to that, he gave me a truly shit-eating grin, and added, “Princess Potty Mouth.”

“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” I retorted, but I finally managed to make myself stand down and gather up my books. “Thanks,” I said grudgingly. “For washing up.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, cheerily. Not knowing what else to do, I nodded at him and headed for my room. Naturally, he waited until I was almost out of the door before calling out, “Hey, Astrid.”

“What?” I called back, pausing mid-step.

“They’re married.” It took me a second to parse his meaning, and then my eyes widened of their own accord. He laughed softly. “And, there’s the look I was hoping for.”

But I was too distracted to respond.

_Married? They’re fucking_ **_married_ ** _?_

Was that why Assault switched teams?

Fuck. I needed more information. But it was going to have to wait. Right now, I had homework to do.

I absolutely couldn’t afford to fall any further behind.


	51. Atychiphobia 4.06

I reluctantly released my quiz paper onto the pile on the teacher’s desk and tried to tell myself it wasn’t as bad as I feared. I had studied. I had. I just couldn’t shake the skin-prickling, throat-tightening feeling that I hadn’t studied **enough**. There just… Fuck. There weren’t enough hours in the goddamn day. Still, at least today was Friday. That meant I had a whole two days to try to make some serious headway on the many things at which I was currently failing.

_Feels like fucking everything._

Ms Price’s disapproving expression flickered through my mind’s eye as I side-stepped a group of chattering kids and made my way through the hall. I cringed inside at the memory of yesterday’s disastrous practice attempt at interacting with civilians. Not for the first time, I found myself wishing I could just pretend to be mute. Apparently there was already speculation among the people who actually cared about Brockton Bay’s newest Ward that I was some kind of metal monster cape. Why not take advantage of that?

_No, not monster cape,_ I reminded myself. _They’re called case fifty-threes._ The skin of my shoulder blades crawled as if Ms Price was about to pop out and reprimand me for my mental slip. Or, worse, as if Carlos was.

My chest seized for a moment, but I forced myself to keep breathing, telling myself that it would be okay. Whenever Carlos decided he was done with completely ignoring my existence and got around to meting out whatever punishment I’d earned, it would be okay. I’d endure it, whatever it was, and then I’d fix the damage and move on.

Simple as that.

And I’d make doubly, triply, quadruply sure to watch my fucking tongue in the future.

I reached a junction and found myself hesitating, moving to one side so I didn’t get in anyone’s way while I dithered over what should have been an easy choice. I considered my options. Right would take me to the library via the courtyard. If I walked slowly, I’d have enough time to eat my sandwich and apple en route, and I could spend the rest of the lunch hour doing some much-needed studying. Left, on the other hand, would take me to the cafeteria, where I still had a standing invitation to join Victoria. And her circle.

(Apparently, that was one thing I hadn’t managed to fuck up. At least not yet.)

(It was surely only a matter of time.)

_I don’t have the fucking time to waste on socialising!_

I didn’t. I really didn’t. And yet…

_I won’t stay long,_ I told myself firmly, as I took the left turn. I’d just say hello to Victoria, eat my lunch, and then head for the library. There would still be enough time to get some serious studying done. Taking a few minutes to get my head straight wouldn’t make that much difference in the long run. Anyway, the past couple of days, Victoria had been texting me to ask where I’d been at lunchtime. It would only be polite to stop by and say hello.

(I sure as shit didn’t want her to think I was being rude.)

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Astrid.” Connor sounded amused, and when I turned to give him an enquiring look, he had a small smile on his lips.

(I totally hadn’t been staring at Victoria, no matter what Hyena-Girl — Karen — had clumsily tried to imply earlier. That bitch should watch herself. If she didn’t learn how to keep her goddamn mouth shut, one of these days someone was going to shut it for her.)

(Not a threat. Just an observation.)

“Yes?” I strove to keep my wariness from my tone and expression. I wasn’t entirely sure I succeeded.

“Are those multiplying?” Before I could ask what he meant, he nodded at the rather chunky metal bracelets adorning my forearms.

Maybe I shouldn’t have taken off my jacket.

“I like bracelets,” I muttered.

Part of me instantly started second-guessing my decision to wear so much of my metal. But between having half (most?) of my team pissed off at me, at least one PRT soldier on the warpath and Dad still out there somewhere, I’d felt more than a little unarmed without it.

Fuck, even with it I felt pretty goddamn vulnerable, even if my power had finally, finally started to unfuck itself.

(What would I do when Dad eventually came for me? What the fuck could I do?)

“It wasn’t a criticism,” Connor drawled, proving that I’d done my usual piss poor job of keeping my emotions off my face. “Personally, I’m a big fan of the kind of jewellery that can double as a melee weapon.” He languidly waved one of his spike-wrapped wrists, his grin widening as suspicion narrowed my eyes.

Was he mocking me?

For my own peace of mind, I resolved to take his words at face value.

“Well, I bet those bands of yours would sure as shit dissuade a motherfucker from trying to go for a wrist lock,” I said, awkwardly returning his grin.

Something flickered behind his eyes, there and gone too fast for me to figure out what it meant. Or maybe I was just imagining things. In any case, his smile remained fixed in place when he said, “Probably. Not that it matters within Arcadia’s hallowed halls, of course. They have a zero-tolerance policy on violence.”

“So I’ve been told.”

I hadn’t forgotten Principal Martin’s rather stern admonition on the subject. Nor his equally stern warning that I shouldn’t expect any special treatment on account of being a Ward. I certainly had no intention of testing him on the matter.

(Not unless I had to.)

Fortunately, Connor didn’t seem to have anything else to say on the subject of jewellery, or anything else. Not to me, anyway. Relieved, I returned my attention to my lunch.

I pretended I didn’t hear Hyena-Girl muttering something disparaging that featured the word ‘Winslow.’ Not that I felt any particular drive to defend that shithole’s so-called honour, but I was pissed off enough with her as it was. With the mood I was in, I really didn’t need any extra reasons to do something… impulsive.

Hellfire and damnation.

Almost a week of enforced idleness, and I was practically climbing the walls. Sure, I’d finally been cleared for exercise again, but hitting the gym this morning hadn’t come anywhere near close to taking the edge off. I really fucking hoped Hess was going to be around later. Especially if she was still as pissed off at me as she’d been during our last conversation. Even the thought of a proper fight — sorry, sparring match — was enough to make my nerves thrum pleasantly with anticipation.

“What are you smirking about?”

It took me a moment to realise that the somewhat sharp question had come from The Bitch Supreme. And, just like that, my mood soured again. I only just stopped myself from sneering as I met Amy’s pinched expression.

“I wasn’t smirking,” I told her, in what I hoped was a dignified manner. “I was just thinking about something.”

She, apparently, had no compunction about sneering at me, her lip curling and her nose wrinkling as if she was smelling something foul.

“Thinking?” she scoffed quietly. “No wonder you looked so strange. Must be a novel sensation for you.”

_I can’t put this bitch’s head through the table. I can’t._

Well, I shouldn’t. Just like I shouldn’t atomise the chair she was sitting on. Or warp the metal of its legs around her and slice her to ribbons with near-monofilament wires. Or crack her bones. Or… anything else I absolutely shouldn’t be thinking about doing to Glory Girl’s absolute fucking harpy of a sister.

Not that I would do anything like that, of course. Certainly not just for fucking **words**.

(Not even if those words were the accusations she’d levelled at me a few days ago.)

Anyway, Victoria would flatten me. And it was against Arcadia’s rules. Plus, Amy — as annoying and bitchy as she was — wasn’t an acceptable target.

She wasn’t.

(Even if she was a fucking cape.)

(I really couldn’t let myself forget that.)

Somewhat belatedly, I scrambled for a retort, managing only the somewhat pathetic, “At least I’m smart enough to actually eat my lunch, rather than just playing with it.” I glanced meaningfully at her plate, which was still wastefully half-full, her fork frozen in the act of pushing the contents around. “I would’ve thought you, of all people, would know better.” I paused deliberately, meeting and holding her gaze, and then added, “Ames.”

“I told you not to call me that,” she hissed, her fingers going white as she tightened her grip on her cutlery.

Her reaction helped me claw back some of my much-needed composure, and I made sure to smile extra-sweetly at her when I replied. The expression hopefully matched my overly-saccharine tone.

“Yes. You did.”

Amy sat up bolt upright in her chair, chin pointed like a dagger as she scowled viciously in my direction. If looks could kill, I might possibly have dropped down dead as a doornail. As it was, anticipation crackled pleasantly inside me as I waited to see how she’d respond.

(I couldn’t help noticing that she looked much less mousy when she sat up straight like that instead of hunching over so she almost disappeared into her seat. I wondered why she didn’t do it more often.)

To my grave disappointment, she just shook her head and slumped back down in her seat again.

“Never mind,” she mumbled, going back to playing with her food.

I stared at her for a moment, and then deliberately turned away, fighting a scowl as I crunched the last of my apple between my teeth and started gathering up my things. I’d stayed here long enough.

“Leaving already?” Lin asked. Her smile was so bright and friendly that I found myself returning it before it even occurred to me that I shouldn’t have done.

_Oh well. Too late now._

“I need to get to the library,” I told her. “I have a lot of studying to do.”

“Is that were you were the past couple of days? Studying?” Weirdly, she seemed kind of… hopeful? I wasn’t entirely sure why. I doubted I was overly pleasant for her to be around.

“Yeah.” I cast about for a way to gracefully extricate myself from the conversation, such as it was. “Isn’t Meera around today?”

Well, shit. Now I’d just dug myself in deeper.

“She has an appointment.”

I wondered what it was. However, even I possessed enough rudimentary social graces — well, ‘graces’ — to know I probably shouldn’t ask.

“I hope it goes well.”

Hellfire and damnation! Why the fuck had I said that? But when Lin beamed almost as radiantly as Victoria, I couldn’t quite bring myself to regret my words.

“I’ll pass on your good wishes,” she said brightly.

“Thanks,” I muttered. What the fuck else could I have said? “Anyway, I really do need to go. Have a good rest of the day.”

“Thanks, Astrid! You too.”

Fuck, fuck, **fuck**! I was supposed to be keeping my distance from Lin and Meera, not… chitchatting with them. God-fucking-dammit!

_Next time,_ I told myself. _Next time I’ll keep it cool. I managed it on Tuesday, more or less._

And I’d throw away Lin’s number, too.

Getting to my feet, I put on my jacket and backpack, and gathered up the lunchtime detritus. For a brief, mad moment I wondered if I could disintegrate it without anyone noticing when I dumped it in the trash. The instant the idea formed, though I realised how absolutely fucking asinine it was.

_Control,_ I told myself firmly. I ruled my power. I refused to let it rule me.

(No matter how goddamn good I knew it would feel to just… let it loose.)

Connor waved goodbye. I waved back, probably looking like a complete dork, but whatever. Now I just needed to say goodbye to Victoria and…

Oh.

_Okay, maybe not._

She seemed kind of… occupied. With Dean.

_Jesus fucking Christ. Have they no shame?_

How could people just… carry on eating their lunch with a damn near indecent display like that going on in front of them? But it wasn’t just embarrassment that made me wrench my gaze away this time; that made me pretend to adjust the straps of my backpack while I fought to bring my expression under control. I’d just been struck by a truly awful thought. Had Dean told Victoria about our… talk… on Monday night, and about what had prompted it? Did she despise me, the way he seemed to? I cast my mind back, analysing every little detail of our interactions today and on Tuesday, trying to figure out if she’d been any less welcoming, less warm than she’d been on Monday. I didn’t… think so? And she had texted me on Wednesday and Thursday when I didn’t show up at lunchtime.

So, either he hadn’t told her, or she didn’t care.

But which was it?

I thought about it. I thought about Lin and Meera, and the way they didn’t seem to worry about other people knowing they were… together. I thought about some of the other members of Victoria’s circle of friends who might have been the same way. I thought about how angry Dean had been with me, someone he barely knew, and how he was hardly going to be able to overlook a difference of opinion that strong between him and his fucking girlfriend.

I considered all of that, and my heart sank like a stone.

Victoria, like Dean, was a… a liberal. And, given Dean’s apparent inability to keep secrets from her, sooner or later — probably later — she was going to find out that I… wasn’t. And then what? How would she react? What would she do?

“What’s wrong?” Amy’s abrupt question was really more of a demand, but it lacked the hooks and barbs of her earlier jibes.

“Nothing,” I lied, lowering my voice so the whole table didn’t hear my business.

“That was convincing.” The words were packed with enough weapons-grade sarcasm to fell an Endbringer. Fortunately, she followed my lead and kept her voice down.

I glared half-heartedly at her, unable to muster any real enthusiasm for it. I just felt so fucking overwhelmed right now. Like there was all this… stuff… churning around inside me, and the pressure just kept building and building and it just had nowhere to go, and-

_Fuck._

I glanced over at Amy to find her studying me, her frown carving a deep crease between her eyebrows, and I suddenly found myself remembering one of the more bizarre things she’d said to me. And it was stupid, I knew, but I couldn’t help wondering if…

“Did you mean what you said, on Tuesday?” My voice was a little gruff, but that was miles better than pleading.

“What?”

“About listening. If I wanted to…” My voice cracked. I had to swallow hard before I could continue. “If I wanted to talk. Did you mean it?”

She wasn’t part of my team, but she already more or less knew as much about me as any of them did. I didn’t give a fuck what she thought about me, and she didn’t have any kind of good opinion of me to tarnish. She was my best chance at an outside point of view who I could be reasonably sure wasn’t going to go blabbing to my superiors.

And, well, she’d offered.

“Well?” I asked, when she just looked at me. “Did you?”

After another bout of excruciating silence, she finally gave me an answer.

“Sure,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s talk.”

 

* * *

 

“I thought you said you wanted to talk.”

I scowled at Amy, huddled up in her shapeless sweater — apparently one of many — at the far side of the bench to me, and was struck with a sudden feeling of déjà vu. This was the third time we’d sat on a bench and had what I would charitably call a conversation.

Well, it would be a conversation if I could actually figure out what the fuck I wanted to say.

“This might have been a mistake,” I muttered.

“Oh no you don’t!” Amy snapped, sitting up straight and pointing an accusing finger at me. “I only made that offer in the first place because I felt sorry for you. You do not get to waste my time. You dragged me out here in the cold because you wanted to get something off your chest. So talk.”

“You’re not my fucking superior,” I shot back, only just remembering to keep my voice low. “You don’t get to give me orders. And what the fuck do you mean, you felt sorry for me?” _Control,_ I reminded myself. _Don’t let the bitch get to me._ Hard as it was, I made myself relax, leaning back against the bench and meeting her glare with a sneer. “I didn’t think you were capable of that kind of emotion.”

“Says Little Miss Emotionally Constipated.”

“You don’t know me! Anyway, since when is vomiting up your fucking feelings over all and sundry something to aspire to?”

“Well, I’m convinced,” she said, her tone drier than the desert. I honestly wasn’t sure whether or not she was being sarcastic, but it was probably safe to assume she was. I would’ve called her on it, but apparently she wasn’t done speaking. “Alright,” she said. “Let me make it easier for you. Because I’m helpful like that.”

“Sure, you are.”

No uncertainty there. That was definitely sarcasm on my part. But, aside from a slight narrowing of her eyes, Amy apparently chose to let it go.

“Does whatever’s got you so backed up have to do with our conversation on Monday?”

I thought about it. I guessed my current predicament could be traced directly back to her telling me that Carlos wanted to get in my pants, so…

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so let’s start there. Why did you go so pasty when I said the thing about the jewellery?”

Okay, now I was just confused. And irritated.

“I didn’t go pasty,” I corrected her. “But we already talked about why it” — freaked me the fuck out — “bothered me. On Tuesday.”

The look she turned on me then, I could’ve sworn it was like she was trying to see right into my soul. I caught myself solidifying my hold on the bench beneath us, claiming the metal more firmly. It took effort to make myself loosen my grasp.

I really fucking hated being scrutinised. Nothing good ever came of it.

“Because it was from your…” she looked around, and then scooched a little closer along the bench, lowering her voice. “Team leader.”

Had I fucking stuttered? Or was her memory really just that bad?

“Yes!” I hissed, not even trying to keep my frustration from my voice. “And, like I said, we already had that conversation.”

“You didn’t say why it bothered you so much, though.”

Was she fucking with me?

“Isn’t it obvious?” Surely she wasn’t that naive. “He’s the fucking commanding officer. He gives the orders. He’s responsible for maintaining discipline.”

Not to mention the fact that he was a fucking brute.

Amy was looking at me like… It was the same expression she’d worn when I’d blabbed about Lance being responsible for my newest bruises: faintly sickly-looking. But, now that I looked closer, it was also kind of… knowing? But what the fuck did she think she knew about me?

“You thought he was going to try to pressure you into sex?”

Hearing her say that out loud, so bluntly, was like a jolt of electricity arcing through me. My muscles locked and it felt like my chest was seizing up. I was so cold it was almost a shock not to see ice-crystals forming on my skin. Amy’s expression shifted fractionally, and I thought for one horrible moment she was going to do something stupid like ask me if I was okay.

_Control, dammit._

“No, of course not,” I forced myself to say, wincing inside at how uncertain I sounded.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“And you’re a tactless bitch.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she drawled, amusement glinting in her eyes when I glared at her. The amusement soon faded, though, replaced by a kind of studied blankness. “That’s a contraceptive implant in your arm, isn’t it?”

How did she…? Oh. When she fixed me. Of course.

“You can sense shit like that?”

“I can tell where the living stuff isn’t. The rest is just deduction.”

Her voice was the exact combination of dismissive and bored as it had been when she’d listed the various ways in which I’d been damaged.

(I didn’t think I’d ever forget it.)

I had a sudden, stupid urge to prod at the familiar ridge on the inside of my left upper arm. I covered my irrational discomfort with a scowl.

“So, what if it is?”

“Unusual for someone your age. Pills are more common. And it’s probably been in a good couple of years or so.”

Memories surged like a dark tide. I desperately shoved them back.

“Something like that.” This was so fucking awkward. And she was just looking at me, with that tight, blank expression, like she was expecting me so say something else. But I didn’t have a clue what she wanted from me. I shrugged. “Dad didn’t want me to get pregnant.”

Her eyes went wide, and she got that queasy look again, her face so pale I could’ve sworn I could see every single one of her stupid freckles. What the fuck was her problem? First she got squeamish about some bruises and then-

The realisation hit me like a tonne of bricks, rattling me to my bones.

_Oh, shit!_

“Whatever the fuck you’re thinking, you can just stop right there.” I almost slid along the bench so I could loom over her, but the fact that she was a fucking cape kept me at bay. “My dad would never, ever touch me like that. And, for that matter, neither would my brother. What the fuck is wrong with you? That is seriously fucked up, Amy. They’re family! Why would you even think that?”

Colour bloomed in her cheeks, making her look as though someone had slapped her. She certainly reacted as though I’d threatened violence, almost flinching away from me and hunching again, stuttering a little before she finally got ahold of herself.

“Not like it doesn’t happen,” she muttered, sounding seriously off-balance.

“Yeah, well, not to me.” I glared at her, searching for something suitably scathing to add, but then my train of thought was derailed when I realised the next logical supposition for her to make. My cheeks probably flushed redder than hers. “And I’m not… I’ve never… I’m not fucking anyone, before you make any more ridiculous assumptions.” And I sure as shit wasn’t planning on doing so anytime soon. Maybe not ever, now I didn’t have to worry about being ordered to pop out a couple of heirs. “It’s just a… a precaution, that’s all.”

Amy finally seemed to get herself under control.

“Why?” she asked bluntly.

I opened my mouth to tell her it was none of her fucking business, and she could take her curiosity and shove it right up her ass. What I said instead, was, “There were some guys, a couple of years back; three of them. They… They threatened me.”

Goddamnit! Hellfire and fucking damnation! Why the fuck had I told her that? It had been forever ago. It was over and done with. Anyway, it wasn’t like it bothered me. Fuck. I never should have said anything to Lance. It had obviously stirred up shit that was best left buried and forgotten.

“Threatened you,” she echoed, her voice flat and her expression inscrutable.

Was she expecting me to spell it out? Tough shit.

“Yeah.” My voice was as flat as hers. “But Dad stopped them before… He stopped them.”

He called off his men before they went too far.

(After setting them on me in the first fucking place.)

I was caught completely off guard by a sudden scalding rush of pure rage, filling me from my head to my toes. I could barely breathe, I was so mad, and I didn’t even understand why. It was… It hadn’t been purposeless suffering. He’d done it for a reason. He’d only been trying to make me stronger.

(So why did it feel more like he broke me?)

“They just smacked me around a bit. No serious damage.” I didn’t understand why I was still talking. Certainly not why I was talking to Amy fucking Dallon of all people. But I couldn’t seem to make myself stop. “The things they were saying, though… It was some seriously fucked up, sick and twisted shit.”

Afterwards, I hadn’t been able to get it out of my head. Every time I’d seen their faces, or heard them speak, it had all come flooding back to me. Sure, they’d been acting under orders, but they’d still come up with all that… filth. Even if they never had any intention of carrying any of it out, it had all still been there, in their heads.

(And now it was in mine.)

Fuck, I’d been a mess back then. It had been bad enough that Dad had noticed, despite my best efforts to keep it all locked down. One day, out of the blue, he’d told me the day’s training was cancelled, and the two of us were going to take a trip. He didn’t tell me why, and I didn’t ask. But instead of the punishment I’d been expecting (or, worse, another attempt to force me to trigger), I got… a day out in Brockton fucking Bay.

“A few days after it happened, Dad took me out of town on a day trip. I guess he wanted to help me clear my head.”

_Why can’t I stop fucking talking?_

It was the first time I’d been back to my home town since Dad had spirited me away from it all those years ago. I couldn’t honestly say I was impressed by the place. I was, however, willing to admit I might have been a little biased on the subject. But it had been kind of nice to hear Dad talk about it. And about Mom. He’d taken me to this stupid little fairground on the Boardwalk and told me a few stories about hanging out there with Mom and with their friends. Her gang. He’d laughed as he described the way she’d got pissed off when some guys had heckled her after she beat them at some crappy shooting game. He laughed more when he told me how she’d beaten the shit out of the guys for their disrespect; how she’d made them bleed.

I think that was the first time I’d really understood just how young they’d all been back then. Dad, Mom, the rest of them… they’d been teenagers. Not kids — they were as much children as I was — but young. Certainly no older than I was now.

A few years after that, Lance was born to whoever it was Dad had knocked up, and a year after he was born, Mom had me.

And a year after I was born, Mom was dead, and Dad took his son and her daughter and went on the run.

What had happened to the rest of their gang? Had they been killed, too? Had they scattered to the winds? Had Lance’s mother and my biological father been among them? I didn’t know, and I learned very quickly that those were questions Dad didn’t want to me to ask.

But that day, on our impromptu father-daughter trip down memory lane, he’d been positively talkative. And he’d patted me fondly on the shoulder when I won the top prize at the same stupid shooting game Mom had liked. He’d even bought me an ice cream.

“Did it?” Amy’s voice was almost soft, but it startled me anyway. I’d been so lost in the past that I’d almost forgotten she was here. “Clear your head, I mean.”

(I couldn’t lose myself like that. I had to stay alert. I had to.)

“Yeah. I think it did.”

Honestly, it was probably the most fun I’d had in a long while.

(Even if, the whole while, I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.)

When we’d had lunch — in a place I’d chosen, no less — Dad had paused mid-meal, setting his knife and fork down. I’d quickly done the same, trying to ignore the way the food I’d eaten suddenly seemed to sit in my stomach like a stone. And, after making sure that no one was close enough to overhear, he’d told me… He’d said…

‘Parker, Grier and Drake were never going to hurt you. They’re professionals. I picked them because I knew I could trust them to follow my orders to the letter, and to keep their mouths shut about the whole thing afterwards. None of the others know what happened — not even Lance — and they never will.’ He’d paused, then, and if I didn’t know better, I would have said that he’d looked… regretful. Maybe even guilty? ‘We won’t be trying that again. There are better ways. Cleaner ways.’ His voice had been brusque. Clipped. I’d tried to hide my relief, but I think he must have noticed, because he’d put his hand over mine and squeezed it lightly. ‘And I promise you this, Astrid. If any of my men — or anyone else, for that matter — tries to lay so much as a finger on you like that without your permission, I’ll tear them apart with my own fucking hands. Do you understand?’

I had understood. And I’d believed him. What I hadn’t quite believed, though — what had seemed absolutely fucking surreal — was that this had been, essentially, an apology. It had been Dad admitting that he was wrong. And that… that was pretty much unprecedented.

“So, what? When your father took you out to clear your head, he thought he’d get you a contraceptive implant at the same time?”

I shrugged.

“Something like that.” He hadn’t told me it was on the day’s itinerary until we were already in the car again, Brockton fucking Bay receding into the distance. I hadn’t objected. What would have been the point? It wasn’t exactly a choice. Anyway, I didn’t want to object. “It was a good idea,” I heard myself say, sounding almost bored. “If I ever am in that kind of situation again, it’s one less thing to worry about.” When no reply was immediately forthcoming, I studied Amy, wondering what was going through her mind. “What? Don’t tell me you disapprove.”

“Of course not,” she said, after a moment. “Why the hell would I? It’s your body.”

I surprised myself by laughing, but there wasn’t much humour in it. It tasted so bitter I thought it might choke me.

“Tell that to the fucking PRT,” I muttered.

“What?” she barked. “Why do they care?”

I shook my head.

“Fucked if I know. But apparently there are rules and regulations to do with medical procedures for minors in their care. If it isn’t considered medically necessary…” I let my words trail off. I was sure she could fill in the gaps.

“So they might take it out?”

“Probably not. But they might not replace it when it runs out next year.” I could tell she had more questions, but I had no particular desire to satisfy her idle curiosity. “Anyway, I’m done talking about this.”

“Fine,” she said tightly. And then, “You know, my other offer still stands. If you want Victoria to give someone — or even three someones — a very bad day, I can make it happen. All you have to do is say the word.”

Send Glory Girl after Parker, Grier and Drake? What would’ve been the point? They were only following orders.

Anyway, it’s not like they really did anything.

“I’ll bear that in mind.” I made myself add, “Thanks.” It felt like it cost me. It felt like this whole conversation had cost me. I didn’t feel better at all. If anything, I thought I might have felt worse. What the fuck had I been thinking? “Anyway,” I said, “I should probably get going. I-”

“No.”

“What?” I glared at Amy, confused and irritated. “What the fuck do you mean, no?”

“It’s a two-letter word meaning fuck you,” she snapped back. “I’m surprised it’s not already part of your vocabulary. Anyway, we got side-tracked. You said you had an awkward conversation with Carlos. What did you do? Just point blank ask him if he wanted to fuck you?” I couldn’t keep myself from flinching, and Amy paused, her eyes widening. “Wait. You really did? And **I’m** the tactless bitch?”

“I didn’t phrase it quite that bluntly,” I muttered, making note of the fact that she knew Carlos’ name. I guessed it wasn’t that much of a surprise, really.

She shook her head, her expression irritatingly pitying.

“No wonder he’s pissed off with you,” she said, sighing. “You basically flat out accused him of trying to abuse his authority to force someone into sex. But it’s his own stupid fault. He shouldn’t have given you a gift that could be misinterpreted like that.”

“I didn’t misinterpret it until you put that goddamned idea in my head!”

“Victoria put the idea in your head first,” she said tartly, shifting uncomfortably. “And in mine. I wouldn’t have said anything if she hadn’t brought it up. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Carlos should have been more careful. Even if he is… him.”

Had she been about to say something else then? Did she know about his… tastes?

“It wasn’t his fault,” I muttered, feeling compelled to defend my commanding officer. “Anyway, that part of the conversation wasn’t what pissed him off. It was what happened afterwards.”

“Which was what?”

I hesitated.

“I’m not sure I can tell you.”

Amy’s pause didn’t feel like a hesitation. It felt like judgement.

“Let me guess. He explained why he wasn’t actually interested in fucking you and you reacted… poorly.”

Well, that answered the question of whether or not she knew about Carlos.

My face heated, and I wanted to look away, but I refused to let myself break her gaze.

“Something like that. He caught me by surprise.” Was that disgust in her eyes? Was it anger? Was this going to be a repeat of what happened with Dean? “If you’re thinking about yelling at me, don’t bother. Dean already did that.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly.

“Dean yelled at you. Dean. Mr Understanding himself.”

“That’s right.” I scowled, mainly to cover the stupid fucking feelings that felt like a storm of razorblades whirling around in my chest. “But he wasn’t exactly Mr Understanding at the time. More like Mr Judgemental Asshole. And I don’t care if he was having a bad day. Where the fuck does he get off barging into my room to yell at me about something I didn’t even fucking say?”

My chest was heaving, and I was so… so fucking mad right now.

(It didn’t hurt. It didn’t.)

I hadn’t felt this furious talking about it with Dennis. Or, maybe I had, but it had been a cold kind of rage. Now, though, it was like felt like I was burning up with it.

I glowered at Amy, who was just watching me, her expression locked down beyond my meagre capacity to read it.

“What?” I demanded, almost hoping she would give me a reason to forget that she wasn’t an acceptable target. Almost.

She shrugged; making a production of it.

“Way to live up to the Winslow stereotype,” she drawled.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“According to the rumours, most of the students and half of the teachers have ties to one or another of the gangs. And you’re clearly not ABB, so…”

I almost choked on my rage.

“I am not a fucking nazi,” I ground out.

“No? Then why the fuck are you acting like one?”

“How am I acting like one? I wasn’t concerned about what Carlos’ gift meant because he’s fucking Hispanic!”

I tried to ignore the fact that his skin colour was one of the first things I’d noticed about him; the way I’d been startled to find out that Hess was black. It didn’t help. Frustration built inside me until I damn near wanted to scream with it. I’d tried. I was trying so damn hard. But, no matter what I did, I knew the poison was still there. Waiting.

“Yeah, because it isn’t like E88 are known for beating up queer people as well as people of colour.” There was that weapons-grade sarcasm again. “Oh. Wait.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” I only just managed not to yell the words. “That’s not me. I’m not going to beat the shit out of someone because I disagree with their goddamn lifestyle choices!”

(Not unless they tried to force their choices on me.)

“Ah, ‘lifestyle choices.’ A favoured dogwhistle of homophobes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! You really are just as bad as Dean, you sanctimonious bitch! I don’t know why I ever thought this was a good idea.”

Without waiting for a reply, I shoved myself to my feet and stomped away.

Fuck me. I wanted to hit something. Someone. Anyone.

No, not anyone. I wasn’t that far gone.

Hess had better be in the mood to spar. And if she wasn’t?

_I bet I can fucking provoke her._

If there was one thing I was good at, it was pissing people off.

 

* * *

 

“You’re absolutely sure you’re okay with this?” Chris asked, for about the billionth time. “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” I assured him, also for the billionth time. I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “Dr Jefferson cleared me to exercise, remember?”

Admittedly, the good doctor had also admonished me to ease my way back into things and not push myself too hard, but I seriously doubted I was in any danger of overexertion right now. Chris was hardly going to wear me out. It was far more likely to be the other way around.

“Well… okay,” he said. “But tell me if you want to stop. Please? I promise I won’t mind.”

“Fine,” I said, covering my exasperation with a grin. “But if anyone’s going to be begging for mercy here, it’s you.”

“Um…” he said, his eyes popping wide. He swallowed audibly as I purposefully advanced on him. He swallowed again when I lost the grin.

“Now,” I said. “Defend yourself!”

Soon into the training session, two things quickly became apparent. First of all, Chris was seriously in need of the extra practise. Not that this was a particular revelation. Oh, he wasn’t utterly terrible, I admitted grudgingly. At least not for someone with his woefully inadequate level of training. His stance was good, and when he managed to react instinctively, rather than getting stuck in his own head and becoming distracted — which happened way, way too often for my liking — I could tell that he’d at least paid enough attention during his lessons to get the basics into his muscle memory. So, he wasn’t a total lost cause. Second, though…

_This is really fucking frustrating._

I had to hold back so damn much. He complained the instant I used even the merest hint of anything approaching a reasonable amount of force. (Although, honestly, I preferred the complaints to the idea of him suffering in silence.) This was the first time I’d sparred with someone since running into Lance, and while I knew Chris wasn’t going to be anywhere near as challenging an opponent as Hess, I guess I’d somehow been hoping for… more. I mean, it wasn’t awful. Much to my surprise, I actually enjoyed teaching. He was trying to follow my orders, he really was. And there was definitely a certain sense of fulfilment in knowing that I was helping him improve his ability to protect himself. Aside from those bright spots, though, the experience was just kind of… unsatisfying.

“Why are you wasting your time with that loser?” a familiar, abrasive voice called out.

Irritation warred with anticipation in my heart, driving it to beat faster.

I wondered how long she’d been lurking there before speaking up.

_One of these days, I really am going to put a fucking bell on her._

“He isn’t a loser,” I fired back, keeping my gaze on Chris as I helped him up off the mat. Again. I gave him a quick, encouraging smile and pat on the shoulder, concealing my amusement as his face flushed pink all the way up to the tips of his ears. “And Chris’ company is a damn sight more pleasant than yours.”

“I guess that means you don’t want to spar then,” she drawled smugly, sounding far, far too amused for my liking.

Fuck.

“Oh, I didn’t say that,” I said casually, and gave her my best feral smile. “Believe me, Hess, I’m happy to beat you black and blue any fucking time you want.”

“I just bet you are, Little Miss Aryan Ideal.”

_What a fucking bitch!_

Before I could respond to her words with the contempt they deserved, though, Chris took a few strides towards her and said, “Actually, Astrid has brown eyes, not blue.”

Hess looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. I had to admit the expression on my face might not have been entirely dissimilar.

“Well I guess you’d know, Pipsqueak. Fuck knows you’ve just spent enough time flat on your back staring up into them.”

Poor Chris flushed and spluttered. Still, his attempt at defending me, unnecessary though it was, made me feel kind of… warm inside, and weirdly off-kilter. It might not have been the most effective retort in the world, but it meant something thathe’d tried.

I really wasn’t used to people sticking up for me. Mostly, they just cheered on my attackers.

“Leave Chris alone,” I told Hess impatiently. “At least he’s actually trying to improve himself, which is a fuck of a lot more than you can say.”

“Improve himself. Sure.” Her voice dripped with contempt. She shook her head and crossed the room to one of the other mats, where she started her warm-up routine. “Just let me know when you’re done playing with your little pet,” she called back.

I glared, on the verge of going over there and thumping her. Or just dropping her through the floor. Either sounded good right about now. Chris’ presence was the only thing that held me back.

“Ignore the cocky bitch,” I told him firmly. “She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. You’re not my fucking pet, you’re my friend.”

“Oh, um.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, his face as red as I’d ever seen it. He had the most peculiar expression on his face. “It’s okay,” he continued, before I could ask him what I’d said wrong. “I’m used to ignoring Sophia.” He smiled at me then, and I couldn’t help smiling back. “And I- I’m glad to be your friend.”

“Oh. Good.” My own face was starting to feel a little warm. This was fucking ridiculous. I did my level best not to think about it, resisting the urge to call a halt to training so I could go over and take out some of my frustration on Hess’ body. “So… shall we continue? We could try that throw again.”

“Actually, I kinda need to go,” he said, with a surprising — and sincere-sounding — amount of regret. “My parents are expecting me.” He sighed heavily, hunching his shoulders a little. “Time to face the music,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

“What?” I felt a sudden chill, my skin pricked with inexplicable pins and needles as my pulse started racing. “What do you mean? Are you in trouble?”

Were they going to discipline him?

“Unfortunately,” he said gloomily. “I kind of maybe… didn’t hand in some homework. And I flunked a test. So Mom and Dad want us to have a little talk.”

No. No, they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Would they? His parents… they were soft on him. They let him get away with all kinds of shit they probably shouldn’t. But… but what if this was the last straw? What if they’d finally decided it was time to show him that there were consequences for failure?

Fuck, what was wrong with me?

“Are you going to be okay?” I asked him, unsure why I felt so fucking wobbly all of a sudden. In the back of my mind, I was going through a familiar checklist.

_Make sure there are ice-packs in the freezer. Restock the first aid kits with dressings, gauze, tape and safety pins, if necessary. Double-check the use-by dates on the saline solution._

(Check on my personal stash of swabbing alcohol, needles, and thread, even though I didn’t really think they would be necessary.)

(Fuck. I really hoped they weren’t necessary.)

“Yeah, of course,” Chris said, and I thought I felt my heart break a little at the naive confidence in his voice. “I mean, it’s not certainly not going to be fun or anything, but- Oof!”

The muffled squeak of surprise might have had something to do with the fact that I’d just stepped forward and hugged him. He wasn’t the only one who was shocked! I hadn’t exactly planned it, I just… Fuck. I… I…

_I should let the poor guy go before I crush him._

“Good luck,” I muttered, completely unable to make myself meet his eyes as I stepped back. I couldn’t keep still either, so I started on a series of stretches, letting my body move through the exercises largely on autopilot as I desperately willed my cheeks to cool down.

By the feel of it, they were probably glowing.

“Thanks,” Chris said, after a moment of really fucking awkward silence. His voice was a good half-octave or so higher-pitched than usual. “Um, I need to go, um, shower and… stuff. If I, uh, don’t see you afterwards, I guess this is, goodbye for now?”

“Bye.”

“Okay.” I heard him start to move away, and then stop. “Will I, um, will I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

_Where the fuck else would I be?_

“Cool. Oh, and thanks for the lesson. And for sticking up for me with Sophia. A- and for the hug. Bye, Astrid!”

He was gone before I could reply. Honestly, that was probably for the best.

_Right,_ I thought to myself, figuratively turning my back on the messy, churning mass of too many fucking **feelings** that conversation had left me with. _Time to go smack a bitch._

A little cathartic violence might not exactly have been what the doctor ordered, but right now this moment? After the fucking shitshow of a day I’d had?

It was exactly what I needed.

 

* * *

 

“The fuck do you mean you don’t want to spar?” I tried not to whine. My skin felt tight and prickly, my whole fucking body damn near aflame with thwarted anticipation. I fucking **needed** this! But I did my level best not to let the bitch see how desperate I was, sneering at her as I added, “What’s wrong, little girl? Afraid I’ll play too rough and bruise your delicate skin?”

Instead of bristling, though, or snapping back at me, the irritating cow just grinned, leaning against a training dummy like she didn’t have a care in the whole fucking world.

“Trying to piss me off, Talos? That’s cute.”

“Don’t call me that,” I retorted, trying to ignore the way the metal beneath my feet seemed to me practically begging me to let it loose. “I’m out of costume.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make you a civilian.”

_Wait a minute. Did Hess just… give me a compliment?_

I was so thrown by the idea that I just blinked gormlessly at her as she continued to talk.

“I suppose if you’re that eager to get your ass handed to you, I could be persuaded to go a round or three…” Effortlessly pushing off the wall, she stepped slowly, almost lazily towards me, her movements as irksomely graceful and silent as they ever were. I stood my fucking ground, not yielding so much as a single goddamn inch even when she got right in my face. “I won’t even make you ask nicely,” she murmured softly.

“You couldn’t make me do anything if you tried, Shadow Bitch,” I shot back, thankfully finding my voice again. “And I might be a great many things, but ‘nice’ really isn’t one of them. If that’s what you’re expecting from me, you’re going to be sorely fucking disappointed.”

She gave a lopsided shrug.

“We’ll see.”

I blinked at her.

“See what?”

“Whether you disappoint me.”

What the flying fuck was going on here?

“You’re speaking in riddles, Sophia,” I took refuge in my anger, and also in some cathartic pettiness, drawing myself up to emphasise the height difference; filling my expression and voice with disdain as I literally and figuratively looked down on her. “You want to spar or not?”

“I thought you’d like riddles. You seem like one of those… what are they called? People who act fake-smart.”

I was too stunned by the brazenly oblivious fucking gall of her to even be properly mad.

“Pseudo-intellectuals?”

“Yeah, those.” She nodded with completely unselfconscious satisfaction. “You’re always studying and shit. And I remember how you fucked up that guy who called you a dumb cunt.” The sound of her laughter was as unexpected as it was bizarre. “Shit, that was funny.”

“What the-” My words failed me, and I shook my head helplessly. “How the fuck does studying and smacking the shit out of people who call me stupid make me a fucking… pseudo-intellectual?”

“You’re the pseudo-intellectual. You tell me.”

I considered and rejected a number of possible responses, eventually settling on, “So, are we going to spar or what? Because I’ve got better shit to do than endure your pathetic attempts at wit.”

“We could spar,” she said slowly, my mood instantly perking right the fuck up. Of course, she then had to ruin it all by adding, “But I’ve got a better idea.”

“What?” I growled, cringing inside at all the exasperated frustration packed into that single word. “Whatever you’ve got to say, just spit it the fuck out, bitch. I am rapidly losing patience with you.”

She eyed me thoughtfully, letting the silence stretch like taffy studded with razor blades. Hard as it was not to just grab her and start shaking answers loose, I kept myself still, keeping any profanity-laden demands for her to get the fuck on with it trapped safely behind my teeth. After a fucking lifetime, she finally deigned to relieve my burning curiosity.

Naturally, that involved her intruding even further into my personal space as she leaned in close to damn near whisper her answer.

“I’ve got a lead on some Empire assholes who are planning on starting some shit tonight. I plan on making them regret their life choices. You could join in the fun if you want.”

I kept myself perfectly still. Only when I was one hundred per cent sure I had my voice and expression under control did I allow myself to respond.

“Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not because I need the backup,” she said, tone sharp as a blade. “If that’s what you’re thinking, you can go fuck yourself.” She paused like she was waiting for a response. When I didn’t give her one, she continued speaking. “Maybe I want to see when you do when you go up against your friends.”

“Not my fucking friends.”

“So prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove a damn thing to you.” Fuck me, though, I kind of wanted to. Not because I cared what she thought of me, but the thought of being associated with those nazi motherfuckers… It itched like needles underneath my skin. That was why I found myself saying, “But smacking around some assholes might actually be worth putting up with your company for a while.”

“So, you’re in?”

Fuck, I wanted to say yes. I wanted it so badly it felt like hunger gnawing at my belly. But I made myself stop and think.

“I haven’t been cleared for unsupervised operations yet,” I ventured cautiously.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Hess said, rolling her eyes.

“I don’t even have a proper costume right now.”

Even if I did, my control over it had been shitty enough even before I fried my nerve-endings by pushing my power to its limits. Much as I hated to admit it, I wasn’t sure I could manage anything close to combat effectiveness in my metal armour right now.

“So? Figure it out, smart girl.”

_Bitch._

“If you have a lead, why haven’t you reported it up the chain?”

The protocols were pretty fucking clear on that point, and for good reason. People going off half-cocked, instead of as part of a coherent strategy… It would be chaos. Then again, that was Shadow Stalker’s MO, wasn’t it? Teamwork and playing by the rules really weren’t her thing. Which made it even more baffling why she’d asked me to take part in this little unsanctioned op.

“Look,” she said, like I was being unreasonable. “If I was a good girl and ‘passed it up the chain,’ what do you think would happen? Fuck all, that’s what. By the time the great big bureaucratic machine shat out a response, it would be too late. And even if they did get to it in time, the worst these assholes would get is a short stay in prison. If they even get that far. If the case doesn’t get tossed for not following ‘proper procedure’ or some shit. Or if an Empire sympathiser in the cops doesn’t just ‘forget’ to book them in. And even if they actually get locked up, no doubt they’ll be out soon enough, and they’d have even more of a rep with their fellow Empire assholes.”

That sounded depressingly plausible. To hear Dad and Lance tell it, BBPD was positively riddled with sympathisers, and even outright members. I wondered uneasily if the Empire had made similar inroads into the PRT.

But that was a nightmare for another time.

“So you’re saying just going out and fucking them up is better?”

“Of course it is. Hard to start shit if you’re breathing through a tube. Or to build a rep. And they get to serve as an example to anyone else who might think about starting shit in my turf. As far as I’m concerned, there are no downsides.”

I could think of one or two, but what she was saying made an annoying amount of sense.

_Fuck, it sounds like something Dad might say._

I instantly resolved to never, ever tell her that.

“I see.”

_Fuck me. I want to do this._

It was stupid. It was impulsive. It was breaking the rules.

And yet…

And yet.

“Look,” Hess said, her impatient voice snapping me out of my analysis paralysis. “Tell me you’re not going stir-crazy right now. Tell me the thought of dishing out a righteous beatdown to motherfuckers who really deserve it won’t be good for what ails you.” A minute, barely-there pause, and then, “Tell me you don’t want this.”

I… I couldn’t. And I could tell by the way her expression shifted into one of pure, unadulterated triumph that she saw that written all over my face.

“Fine,” I told her, somewhat redundantly. “But I’m going to need more details.”

“Of course.” Now she’d got what she wanted, she sounded positively cheery. “I’ll meet you in your room so we can discuss it.”

_Presumptuous bitch!_

She started to turn away.

“Want to spar first?” I asked hopefully. “I mean, we are both here.”

“Nah, I’m good,” she drawled, smirking. “Keep it in your pants, Talos. Save that aggression for later.”

I… may possibly have spluttered a little.

“I’m going to have a shower,” I proclaimed, with as much dignity as I could manage. “Stay the fuck out of my room until I get there. I mean it, Stalker. Not so much as a finger over the threshold.”

I didn’t wait for a reply.

A short while later, I washurrying through my shower, eager to get to the mission prep. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough to finish before the doubts set in.

Hess and I had never worked together. Like I’d noted earlier, she was used to working alone. Sure, she could fight, and she certainly knew how to teach an asshole a lesson they wouldn’t forget. But how was her intel gathering? How good was she at strategy and tactics? How well did she improvise when shit when sideways?

I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.

Fuck me. This operation could well end up as a total fucking shambles.

Not that it mattered. What the fuck was I going to do? Change my mind? Back down in front Sophia fucking Hess?

No fucking way. I didn’t back down. I wouldn’t back down. Not ever.

Anyway.

Once again, I felt that pleasant hum of anticipation along my nerves, my whole body practically buzzing with energy.

_I’m really looking forward to this._


	52. Atychiphobia 4.07

“Assholes on the approach.”

Shadow Stalker’s words sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, and I forced myself to take a couple of slow, deep breaths to calm down.

_Control,_ I told myself sternly.

It didn’t help. There was a pressure building up inside me like a gathering storm. It was an electric, sharp-edged kind of energy, mounting and growing until it felt as though I would surely burst if I didn’t find a way to let it out. It was all I could do not to get up and start pacing back and forth.

“Direction?” I asked, relieved that I’d at least managed to keep the ridiculous jitteriness out of my voice.

“East. Heading down Castle Street on foot.”

Instinctive disgust twisted my lips in a sneer. ’Strike hard and strike fast,’ Dad had always taught me. ‘The goal is to take the enemy out before they even know you’re there.’ By traveling on foot, out in the open, the Empire motherfuckers were going to draw attention. Their targets were going to know they were coming, and would have time to prepare some sort of response. Then again, if Shadow Stalker’s intel was right, that was kind of the point of the exercise. This wasn’t a hit, it was a challenge. It was about sending a message. I understood that. I just thought the way they were going about it was utterly fucking stupid.

Not that their targets were any better. The ABB kids were milling around on the street below; laughing and drinking and generally carrying on like they didn’t have a care in the world. Like they actually felt safe. Given their position, right at the edge of ABB territory, they surely had to realise what a tempting target they made. Especially for a gang of Empire motherfuckers actively trying to make a name for themselves. Especially if there was already bad blood between the two groups. So why the fuck were they pissing around like kids at a party instead of maintaining their goddamn perimeter?

_They deserve to get fucked up. All of them._

“Numbers?” I asked. “Weapons?”

“Dozen or so. A few baseball bats visible.”

I guessed we’d find out soon enough what else they were packing.

One of the ABB members below pulled out his phone, had a very short conversation, and then scrambled to say something to the guy in charge. In an instant, the whole atmosphere on the street corner changed, laughter and pissing around replaced by barked orders and grim faces.

“Looks like these fuckers just got their warning,” I murmured. It wasn’t much of one. No sooner had they started getting their asses in gear when I heard the sound of raised, raucous voices. Not long after that, the charge of the asshole brigade trudged into view.

I had to hand it to Shadow Stalker: she’d picked a good spot for overwatch. Even if the approach had been a little hairy for those of us who couldn’t just fucking glide from rooftop to rooftop. It was a damn good job I’d kept my hand in at free-running. And that my metal could help me get to those hard-to-reach places. Even so, I hadn’t come close to being able to keep up with the pace she’d set, as she’d delighted in pointing out at every available opportunity. That, plus the new scrapes and bumps I’d acquired along the way, were a testament that I really fucking needed to get in some manoeuvrability practice. (On top of all the other shit I had to do.)

“Should’ve brought popcorn,” Shadow Stalker murmured, practically in my ear. Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but she’d still moved a damn sight closer to me than necessary.

“Does the phrase ‘personal space’ mean anything to you?” I grumbled before I could think better of it.

“Nah.” I didn’t need to see her face to know she was smirking. “Why, am I bothering you?”

I almost retorted, but made myself hold my tongue. Even when she moved closer still. This wasn’t the time or the place; not in the middle of a fucking mission. But I made myself a promise.

_Next time I get the chance, this bitch is going down._

Warmed by the thought, I settled in to watch the show, such as it was. For the moment, it was just two groups of assholes posturing at each other, working up the nerve to actually start throwing punches. I wished they’d fucking well get on with it.

My restlessness hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten worse, nerves humming like live wires beneath my skin; metal starting to flow above it until I forcibly brought my power to heel. I was twitchy as fuck right now, and that was absolutely unacceptable. The mission was the priority. Everything else was just noise.

_I should be better than this. I need to be better than this._

I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths, pushing aside all distractions in search of the clarity I needed. It helped, somewhat. What helped more was when my metal shifted — intentionally, this time — to press against the fading reminders of my heart to heart with Lance. Just enough pressure for it to sting a little; for the pain to ground me in the here and now.

(‘I know I taught you better than this, girl. Maybe I need to help you focus.’)

That was… better. Much better. Even so, I found myself driven to mutter, “Are they going to talk all fucking night?”

Shadow Stalker’s sly laughter certainly didn’t help my mood any.

“Someone’s eager for some action,” she murmured.

“And you’re not?” I shot back.

I saw movement in my peripheral vision; her shoulders lifting and falling in a languid shrug.

“We’ll get our chance soon enough.”

It wasn’t a denial. But before I could call her on it, one of the Empire fuckers drove his fist into an ABB fucker’s gut, doubling him over. I winced despite myself, memory painting a vivid picture of exactly what that felt like, but before I could even start to feel ashamed of the impulse, the two groups of assholes below surged forward, crashing into each other like breaking waves that spun off into eddies and whorls of violence. Fists, feet and baseball bats flew with gleeful abandon, with quarter neither asked nor given. It was brutal, it was bloody, it was downright fucking ugly. And, right in that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to be down there in the thick of it.

_Control,_ I reminded myself, my hands clenching into fists without my say-so.

“Looks like they finally found their balls,” I observed dryly, relieved beyond measure that none of that stupid fucking **need** spilled out into my voice.

“Looks like it,” Shadow Stalker agreed, her tone slyly amused. “So, who d’you reckon’s going to win?”

“Hard to say. The Empire brought a few more bats to the party, but the ABB have the numbers and the home ground advantage.” I thought the Empire had the edge in terms of discipline and fighting ability, but I bit my tongue on that opinion, a little worried that it might just have been Dad’s indoctrination rearing its ugly head again.“It could go either way,” I hedged instead.

“Well, whoever’s left standing, they’re gonna regret it, yeah?”

“Fuck yeah.”

That was the plan, after all. Let the two groups beat the shit out of each other until one emerged victorious, and then take the winners down a peg or three. It was a good plan. I sure as shit didn’t have a burning desire to save those ABB fucks from their poor life choices, and fighting a battle on two fronts was the height of fuckwittery. It sent a stronger message, too, letting them know that not even the so-called strong were safe. Just when the winners were congratulating themselves for being on top of their little shit heap, we’d come in and shove their faces in it.

I just wished they’d get a fucking move on.

I watched the roaming brawl, my attention drifting here and there, snagging on one or another little knot of violence like driftwood catching on rocks. I wasn’t trying to focus on anyone in particular, but the familiar faces — on both sides of the divide — kept drawing my gaze, each jolt of recognition like an electric shock or the slap of ice-cold water. I’d known ahead of time that there were going to be people I knew down there. I’d even thought I’d come to terms with it. But now, for some strange reason, the world tilted strangely around me, leaving me feeling off-balance and out of step.

_They made their choices,_ I told myself, trying to shake off this stupid fit of… of whatever the fuck it was.

(But did they? After all, if I hadn’t found a way out, I would have ended up down there, somewhere. Maybe not right here and right now, but in some other time and place. Making my enemies bleed, making a name for myself; carving a bloody swathe through Brockton Bay all the way to fucking Kaiser himself. And none of that would’ve been a choice made of my own free will.)

(So I couldn’t help wondering: how many of those fuckers were down there because they really wanted to be?)

(No, it didn’t matter. Whatever their reasons, those assholes — all of them, no matter what gang they joined — still did fucked up things. They still hurt and killed people, including civilians. They had this coming.)

Anyway, it wasn’t like any of them were my friends. Far from it. For one thing, there was that asshole from the grade above me who once made the mistake of trying to make me pay for something Lance did, currently wearing ABB colours. He was beating seven shades of shit out of a creepy little bastard who always seemed to be staring at my tits or ass whenever I saw him at school. (I couldn’t lie: seeing Creepy Bastard get his ass handed to him did bring me a kind of vicious satisfaction, even if it did come at the hands of an asshole who also deserved a good hiding.) And there, right in the thick of things, was Mike, who was probably Lance’s closest friend at Winslow. More importantly, he was the motherfucker in charge of this particular gang of Empire assholes. I guessed that made him the big nazi cheese. (I mentally tagged him as BNC.)

_Knows how to fight, too,_ I found myself thinking. The acknowledgement tasted like bitter ashes.

(Against my will, I found myself remembering the way he’d loomed over me when he’d taken me aside for ‘a quiet word’ after I’d had words of my own with some of his… associates. It actually had only been words, in the end — he hadn’t laid so much as a finger on me — but the encounter had stuck with me nonetheless.)

_Fucking asshole._

As I watched, BNC knocked his opponent to the ground, ensuring he stayed there with a vicious kick to the crotch. A brief pause, a glance to assess the battlefield, and then he was moving again, charting a course towards Creepy Bastard and his dance partner. Events unfolded predictably enough, and shortly thereafter BNC was helping his useless subordinate to his wobbly feet while the ABB fucker sprawled on the ground, no doubt regretting his life choices.

BNC moved onto another target, but Creepy stayed where he was, his attention apparently focused on the former ass-kicker now sprawled in the dirt. He jerked his head forward -- spitting on the guy? Ugh -- and then kicked him in the ribs once, twice, three times. He drew his foot back for a fourth attempt, only to scuttle backwards when his target twitched. (A twinge of something unidentifiable went through me. I might not have been able to see his expression, but that didn’t stop me recognising that specific blend of anger and fear.) Jerking to a halt a short distance away, he stood there for a breath or three, his head bowed and his shoulders heaving. And then his head snapped up again, a new determination in his stance as he took a deliberate step forward and started fumbling in his jacket. A bad feeling coiled inside me like smoke, formless and stifling, but then I caught a telltale glimpse of metal in an all-too-familiar shape, and realisation hit me like a smack in the face.

_That’s…_

My chest seized like the shock really had been a physical blow, my lungs on fire with the need for a breath I couldn’t force myself to take.

(Another set of Asian features, seen in profile in a doorway as the man turned to say a few words to someone outside my field of view. The smell of cooking food wafting out of the kitchen behind him, the sound of music drifting out from further in the house; some upbeat pop number that’d gotten lodged in my head for days. The roughness of the wall behind my back as I lounged against it, pretending to check my phone.)

_He’s going to…_

Darkness consumed the edges of my vision, narrowing my focus to that two-person tableau, the edges sharpening until it seemed like the sight was being branded into my retinas.

(The cold metal of a gun in my hand, heavy in a way that had nothing at all to do with its physical weight. Training exercises that were no longer just exercises. A goal. A target. The ashen taste of despair.)

_I…_

Time juddered to a halt, the instant between one heartbeat and the next stretching out into a yawning infinity.

(The weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder, the low, ominous rumble of his voice as he said those words that cut me like knives: ’You’ll do it tonight.’)

_No!_

The moment snapped like a finger bent too far, the recoil propelling me up and over the lip of the roof as my cables lashed out for purchase in response to a wordless command. Shadow Stalker said something, sharp and shocked and angry, but it was already too late. Claiming the shitty metal of the fire-escape, I surrendered myself to gravity and trusted my power to catch me when I fell.

I plummeted for an eternity, or an instant, or something in between. Long enough for regrets, for the realisation that I hadn’t practised this nearly enough, that the ground was coming up fast, too fast, too **fucking** fast, my breath squeezed out of me by the improvised harness as my metal responded to my frantic, fervent wish to _please don’t let this be the way I fucking die!_ Not doing something this completely and utterly balls-out stupid, acting on some ridiculous childish impulse I didn’t even understand, and what the fuck had I even been thinking and-

The ground slapped the soles of my feet like the hand of a giant, the impact jolting my whole body in a way I sure as shit was going to feel later. Despite my best efforts to dissipate the force by bending my knees and keeping my body loose, that was a rough fucking landing. But I’d survived it. More than that, I was still functional. I was on my feet and ready to… Ready to…

_Oh, fuck me._

I’d just dropped myself slap-bang into the middle of a gang fight. What the flying fuck was I thinking?

For a moment, the world held its breath, suspended in a timeless moment, but then…

“Cape!” someone yelled.

The sound startled me, jolting me out of my stupid paralysis and reminding me that I was behind enemy lines and I had a fucking mission to complete. Even as I assessed the battlefield, I was moving, taking advantage of the short delay it took for the enemy to start reacting to my presence, to close the distance to my targets. My cables lashed out ahead of me, catching Creepy in the act of frantically trying to tug his gun free of his jacket (Still? How long had it been?), where it seemed to have snagged. They wrapped around his body, pinning his arms to his sides, giving me enough time to close the distance and reduce the gun to dust. The bullets pattered to the ground like hailstones, almost loud enough to cover the snap of his arm as I made my metal _constrict_. His scream ripped through the air, ragged-edged and loud, and he collapsed to the ground, cradling his damaged limb. I mentally tagged him as low priority as I retrieved my metal and turned my attention to Mike. BNC. Whatever. Unfortunately, the fucker had taken advantage of his subordinate’s misfortune to put some distance between us, breaking my sightline by ducking behind cover.

‘Going for a weapon,’ my father’s voice whispered in my mind. ‘Take him out before he has the chance to use it.’

I flicked a wire out towards the wall he was hiding behind, the structures unfolding in my mind as I claimed it. Despite the temptation, atomising it would’ve been overkill (’fight like you fucking mean it, girl’), so I dusted a chunk of the far side instead; heard coughing and spluttering in response. Before I could take advantage of his momentary distraction, though, there was movement in my peripheral vision and I whirled, lashing out with blocking cables to smack aside the half-brick some chucklefuck had just thrown at me. My cables lashed out again, snaring the thrower and then contracting to yank him off-balance as I lunged forward to meet him part-way, slamming a metal-wrapped palm into his face. His nose crunched under the impact, but he was apparently made of sterner stuff than Creepy and, instead of crumpling, he actually threw a weak-ass punch my way.

_Sucks to be him._

It was only after he hit the ground that I belatedly registered that he was ABB, not E88. I guessed that meant he either hadn’t seen me stop Creepy from executing his compatriot, or had just assumed the strange cape was hostile. Well, he wasn’t wrong. In any case, I had to keep moving.

Part of me wanted to go after BNC — I hated leaving a job half-done, and he was definitely a high-priority target — but I was acutely aware of how exposed I was right now. Not to mention the fact that where there was one gun in play, there were likely others. So, instead, I angled towards a metal dumpster I’d earmarked earlier. A couple of assholes tried to get in my way, but I went through them like a hot knife through butter, amazed at just how fucking… easy this all felt. Too easy, maybe, but there wasn’t really time to worry about that right now. The metal of the dumpster seemed to respond almost eagerly to my commands; like it had been waiting for me to claim it. It encased my all-too-fragile body like it was made for me, moving with me so easily that I barely even noticed the weight of it.

_I could get used to this._

Buoyed by the sensation, I waded back into the fray, such as it was. Some of the gang members were down on the ground; not active threats. (I ignored the little voice in my head telling me to make certain that they couldn’t threaten me.) Some were running, apparently not wanting to tangle with a strange cape. (I couldn’t honestly say that I blamed them.) Some of these suddenly sprouted bolts and crumpled to the ground, demonstrating that Shadow Stalker had finally deigned to join in the fun. Shortly after that, her dark-clad form appeared on the ground, blurring between targets.

I absently cracked the asphalt beneath some of the other runners, making them stumble and fall, but otherwise leaving them to Shadow Stalker’s tender mercies. I was more interested in the few who were ballsy enough, or dumb enough, to want to play. I knew it was stupid of me, but I couldn’t help hoping that at least some of them would give me a challenge. Maybe a couple? Or even just one?

As if he’d been summoned by the thought, my eyes fell on the Big Nazi Cheese himself. He wasn’t running like the ones Shadow Stalker was currently smacking into the ground, but neither was he attempting to engage either of us. Instead, he seemed to be skulking around the battlefield, occasionally stopping to…

_He’s trying to get his people out of here,_ I realised, hating him even more for the fact that I couldn’t hate that. Still, he seemed relatively unharmed, he was more than likely armed and he was the leader of this particular gang of nazi motherfuckers. He’d definitely done some fucked up shit in his time. Whichever way you sliced it, he was an acceptable target, and that was good enough for me.

I was in motion before I even completed the thought, casting my power out ahead of me to shift the ground beneath his feet, flicking out a wire to claim and dust another chunk of wall. As he stumbled, coughing and rubbing at his eyes, he was reaching into his jacket, but I’d already closed the distance enough to lash out with cables, claiming and disposing of his weapons.

(‘If your brother wasn’t my friend, and if he hadn’t been able to tell me your side of the story, then things might have gotten… unpleasant.’)

“Who are you?” I had a moment of weird disorientation, but then I realised that he was speaking, now, his voice ragged around the edges, turning into a wheeze as I rammed my metal-clad knee into his gut.

(‘I wouldn’t have enjoyed it, of course.’ That had felt like a lie. He’d held my gaze; a smile on his lips and pure ice in his eyes as he let the silence stretch a while before he shrugged casually. ‘You know how it is, Astrid. We look out for our own. Nothing personal.’)

_Fuck you,_ I almost spat, my tongue stilled by the chilling realisation that there was a good chance he might recognise my voice. I punched him instead, and while he reeled from that, I smacked him across the eyes with a cable and punched him again. _Nothing personal, asshole._

(His message delivered, he’d started to turn away, pausing to give me a thoughtful, assessing look. ‘A piece of friendly advice, free of charge. You’ve proved you can make enemies. You might want to think about making a few friends.’ He’d smiled again, and something about the way he was looking at me had made my skin crawl until it felt like it might ooze right off my bones. ‘Maybe I could be one of them.’)

He tried to shove himself to his feet. I took them out from under him and kicked him in the side. He scrabbled around with his hands, scooping up some piece of detritus and throwing it at me. Well, in my vague general direction. I barely even had to block. I’d hardly even touched him and he seemed damn dear done. He was still trying — still looking for a weapon, still struggling to get to his feet — but this wasn’t a fight anymore. If I was honest, it hadn’t really been a fight in the first place. None of them had been. It was just… clean up.

‘Just finish it, girl. Stop fucking around.’

For once, my father and I were in complete agreement.

_He deserves this,_ I told myself, as I smacked the last of Mike’s resistance out of him. _They all do._

It didn’t fucking help.

* * * * *

“The fuck was that about?” Shadow Stalker snarled, a short while after the dust had settled, when we were safely ensconced at our pre-agreed rendezvous point. Naturally, it was another fucking rooftop. (I tried not to mourn the fact that I’d had to give up the bulk of my newly-claimed metal in order to make the climb up the fire-escape.)

“The fuck was what about?” I replied, my tone deliberately dismissive in an attempt to cover up the uneasy fluttering in my chest. Never had I been more glad that my stupidly burning cheeks were concealed by the combination of mask and metal. I knew I’d acted fucking unprofessionally, charging in the way I had, but that didn’t mean I was going to let myself be lectured by the likes of her.

(I tried not to think about the fact that she was technically my superior while we were out in the field. Technically. I also tried not to think about the fact that this was an unsanctioned op, and about what would happen to us if Aegis or the PRT found out. I definitely tried not to think about the fact that if we did get found out, at least then I’d **know**. I wouldn’t have to wonder just how bad it could get. I’d be able to calibrate my expectations accordingly. Maybe then I’d be able to stop being so fucking afraid all the time.)

“You know what.” She strode forward, getting right up in my face. I resisted the brief urge to drop her to her knees, contenting myself with standing my ground and letting my metal bristle warningly. “We had a plan, and that wasn’t it.”

“I’m surprised you care,” I said. “Rules and plans don’t really seem to be your thing.”

“Only the stupid rules. And I wouldn’t be able to pull off half the shit I do if I didn’t fucking plan. How d’you think I found out about the shit that went down tonight? Just happened to overhear it? No! It took a lot of hard work and effort, and I didn’t bring you along tonight so you could fuck that up for me!”

I couldn’t be sure, but beneath all the anger and vitriol, I thought she actually sounded… stung. Not that I cared, not really. But, well, she was my teammate. And getting that intel had been an achievement. Plus, like I’d said: she wasn’t exactly wrong. Damnit.

“Understood,” I said, grudgingly, and then ground to a halt while I struggled to figure out what I could say that wouldn’t involve admitting that I’d been driven to rush in impulsively by my stupid fucking feelings. (A man’s face, seen in profile, the sight accompanied by the smell of cooking food and the sound of music. The weight of a gun in my hand. The pressure of a hand on my shoulder.) “One of the E88 motherfuckers had an ABB asshole down on the ground and was going to execute him,” I heard myself say.

_Oh, fuckdamnit!_

She looked at me for a moment. “So?”

“Not what I signed up for,” I said flatly, a little startled to find words coming, if not easily, then at least not as painfully as I would’ve expected. I tentatively let them come. “They can beat the shit out of each other until the cows come home; I don’t give a flying fuck about that. But standing by and watching someone get capped — even one of those motherfuckers — just doesn’t sit right with me.”

(Memories rose in my mind like gorge in my throat, and for a moment the smell of iron filled my nostrils. I ignored it. All of it.)

“I didn’t figure you for the squeamish type, Talos,” she said slowly, almost cautiously. I wondered if it meant anything that she used my cape name. “Especially not the way you fought down there.”

“I’m not,” I told her. “But it’s like I told Gallant when I signed up: I’m prepared to fight, but I won’t kill. And that includes not standing by and watching some other fucker commit cold-blooded murder.” (A face. A gun. A hand on my shoulder.) I shrugged, the motion feeling stiff and awkward. “It’s as simple as that.”

Part of me really wished I could see Shadow Stalker’s expression. Without it, I couldn’t even begin to guess what was going through her head right now. Not that I’d necessarily have the first clue even if I could have seen her face. But her posture seemed to, not soften exactly, but become less… aggressive? Less challenging, certainly. And her voice, when next she spoke, seemed oddly amused.

“You actually said that to Gallant, huh? That must’ve been a fun conversation.”

I found myself relaxing fractionally myself, a small grin lifting the corners of my mouth as I remembered the way Gallant’s mouth had just dropped open.

“He seemed completely gobsmacked,” I told her, “and I didn’t have the first fucking clue why. It was before I realised just how…” I trailed off uncertainly, waving a hand like I could somehow get across my meaning with interpretative gesturing.

“How lame the Wards are?” she asked.

“How weird the whole thing is,” I corrected. “I don’t think the Wards are lame. Well, stupid-ass sparring policies aside. They’re just… different to what I was expecting.”

“I’ll bet they are,” she muttered, but before I could demand to know what the flying fuck she meant by that, she was continuing with, “So, do you think what you saw down there was special? Did you think those assholes don’t kill?”

“I know they fucking do,” I said, surprising myself with the bitterness in my voice. “I’ve seen-” I bit off the rest of that sentence so sharply I almost bit my tongue, too, cursing myself for my sudden, stupid loquaciousness. “Things,” I concluded, somewhat pathetically.

The moment seemed to stretch like elastic as she stood there in silent, ineffable regard, tension building and building until it felt as if something was going to snap. I drew breath to say… I didn’t even know what; something harsh and angry and challenging. Before I could speak, though, she moved. I’d already started to twitch into a combat stance, metal flowing, before it registered that she was turning away from me. My face incandescent with embarrassment, I got myself — and my metal — back under control as she crossed the rooftop to sit on the somewhat battered-looking air conditioning unit. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I followed her example, cautiously perching at the other end of the unit.

(I had to stifle a gasp as a jolt of pain went all the way along the length of my spine as I sat. Yep, that landing had definitely been a rough one.)

“Heard you’d seen some shit,” she said, in a weirdly conversational tone.

I scowled beneath my mask, my stomach twisting uneasily as I wondered exactly what she’d managed to ferret out about my chequered past. “Who told you that?”

I’d claimed the AC unit with my power as soon as I touched it, but now I idly started fixing some of the worst dents and cracks.

“Our teammates,” she drawled, the second word drawn out and dripping with disdain.

(What the fuck had happened to this thing? Had someone come up here and beat the shit out of it in a fit of pique? It was a minor miracle it still worked.)

“Didn’t think you spoke to them any more than you had to,” I muttered, both relieved that it wasn’t anything worse, and irritated with myself for running my mouth so much. What the fuck was wrong with me these days? I never used to be this fucking chatty. Then again, I wasn’t really used to spending so much time with anyone other than family, let alone actively trying to socialise with them. Clearly, I needed to relearn the fine art of keeping my goddamn mouth shut.

“Some of them talk to me. Guess they can’t take a hint.”

“Clockblocker, right?”

“You looking for a prize?” Before I could decide whether I was amused or irritated at her response, she was already continuing, her tone serious once again. “So, you won’t kill at all? Not ever?”

_No. I can’t, I won’t. I_ **_can’t_ ** _._

I had to pause and take a breath before I could force words past the lump in my throat. I could only hope Shadow Stalker would just think I was considering my answer.

“Not unless there’s no other choice.”

She gave a soft, thoughtful-sounding, “Hmm,” and leaned forward a little, the AC unit creaking beneath us. I reinforced it absently. The weight of her gaze felt like an almost physical pressure. “Sometimes things get crazy down there.” Her voice was low and intense. “Can’t always pull your punches. What will you do then?”

It took everything I had not to look away from that frowning, judgemental mask of hers.

“I’d hope my control would be better than that,” I told her quietly. “Killing should be a choice, not an accident.” She surged to her feet in one swift, graceful motion, pacing back and forth on the rooftop, gravel crunching quietly beneath her feet. I just watched her silently for a few moments as I distractedly continued to work on the AC unit, my heart sinking as I wondered if I’d said too much. I tried to cover my unease with derision. “What’s got you so antsy all of a sudden?”

She spun on her heel to fix me with what I assumed was a glare.

“Me? I’m antsy? Fuck you, Talos. I’m not the one who dived off a building to save the life of some piece of shit who probably wouldn’t think twice about pulling the trigger on both of us.”

“I told you.” I looked down at her; apparently I’d gotten to my own feet without realising it. “It wasn’t fucking squeamishness, or antsiness, or any shit like that.”

“So you say,” she sneered. “But if we’re going to do this again, I need to know that you’ve got my back, no matter what. I can’t have you fucking up my plans because you’re wringing your hands over the thought that one or two of those poor wittle criminals might end up ventilating each other.”

“I have got your back,” I snapped, trying not to show how much the implication stung. “But this is a line I won’t cross. And if that’s a deal-breaker, then so be it.”

(I tried to tell myself I didn’t care. I tried to tell myself that, ultimately disappointing or not, this hadn’t been the most alive I’d felt since I ran. That in some ways — both good and bad — it had felt a little bit like home. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t completely full of shit.)

She studied me for a long, long moment, her cloak fluttering around her in the breeze.

“What if you don’t have a choice? What if it comes down to us or them?”

_Fuck, I don’t know. I just don’t know._

“Then I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

She didn’t respond right away. My chest started to hurt, and I belatedly realised I was holding my breath. I cursed myself internally, hoping she hadn’t noticed how fucking tense I was right now.

“Guess that’ll have to do,” she said. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out her tone. But she sat down on the AC unit again — too fucking close, of course, but I decided to let it go for now — resting her hands behind her so she could lean back, looking up at the night sky. “That wasn’t a bad entrance,” she said, and it took me a moment to recognise that she was actually complimenting me. Her soft laughter tilted me even more. “Bet some of them pissed their pants when you dropped down from the sky.”

“I fucking hope so,” I said, surprised to find myself relaxing a little. “Fear is a weapon. It makes sense to use it.” Petra’s stern expression flashed into my mind again, and I couldn’t quite keep back a wince. “Although I don’t quite think the people in Branding and PR agree with me.”

Shadow Stalker laughed again, shaking her head. She started to say something, but then froze in place. Before I could look up, or ask her what she’d seen, she was leaping to her feet.

“Move!” she snapped, but I was already in motion, falling in beside her as we sprinted across the roof towards the fire-escape. (I took note the fact that she’d been heading in that direction anyway, even though I was the only one of the pair of us who actually needed it.) A few seconds later, there was an almighty crash, ripples of impact spreading through the structure of the building. I absently commanded the structure to _hold_ as I risked a glance over my shoulder, my breath catching in my throat as I saw the pieces of our former seat scattered hither and yon across the rooftop.

_I just fucking_ ** _fixed_** _that!_ I thought, incongruously.

However, most of my attention was on the large concrete slab resting atop the desecrated corpse of the AC unit; the slab that now rose into the air to join the other two just like it that hovered above our heads. Realisation hit me like a smack in the face.

_Well,_ I couldn’t help thinking. _I did want a challenge._

“Fucking **Rune**!”


	53. Atychiphobia 4.08

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to frustratedFreeboota for going above and beyond while beta-ing this chapter, including listening to my endless complaints about the trials and tribulations of writing the thing.

The concrete slab smashed into the roof ahead of me, jerking me to a halt. I flung up my arms up, metal flowing at my wordless command, and shrapnel pinged off my hastily-formed shield. Too much of me was left unprotected, and I cursed under my breath as the rest of the shrapnel spray peppered my body. Fortunately, none of the damage felt serious. Of greater concern was the way that ripples spread from the point of impact, the building shuddering under forces it was never meant to withstand.

(I tried not to think about concrete breaking like bones, of metal screaming as it was pulled apart, of chunks of masonry falling free like loosened teeth.)

(I tried really fucking hard.)

Deep within the structure, something… tore. It was superficial, like a split scab or a broken nail, but my heart juddered in my chest nonetheless, horror chilling me to the bone. Even as I forced my body to keep moving, dashing hither and yon in an attempt to make myself less of a target, I tightened my grip on the building, commanding it to _hold_.

For fuck’s sake! This was a fucking apartment block. What the hell was Rune—

_Shit!_

I jinked right as the airborne Aryan brought the metaphorical hammer down again, reforming my hopelessly inadequate shield as I was once again sprayed with shrapnel. The building was suffering. Surface damage still, but it was starting to mount up; new cracks forming and old damage deepening and spreading. I reinforced some bonds and shifted around others, trying to banish the leaden, helpless feeling that this would all be for naught. The damage to my body was still inconsequential; nothing that would slow me down.

(There was always a risk that a seemingly minor fault might turn out to be something more serious, but that was a worry for when the battle was over and done.)

The concrete slab lifted into the air once more. I briefly considered trying to dust it before it got out of reach, but — as valuable as it would have been to deny the enemy one of her weapons — keeping the building together had to be my priority. I wasn’t confident enough to risk splitting my focus like that, not with something so important. Anyway, I wasn’t on my own here. I had to trust in my partner.

As if on cue there was another almighty crash, this one from Shadow Stalker’s direction. The force of the impact split the skin of the roof and continued on beneath the surface, bonds popping like bursting blood vessels. Brick and wood and plaster were insufficiently malleable for me to be able to do more than contain the the damage and, here and there, small pieces of the structure fell away like torn fingernails and hanks of hair. I couldn’t help wincing as they vanished from my awareness, every new absence a reminder of my failure. Once again, I ordered the building to _hold_.

Doors were opening and closing like mouths, most likely residents doing the sensible thing and fleeing the battered building. I prayed that all of them made it out safely. I tried not to wonder if any of them were calling the ABB. Or, worse, the PRT. In any case, there wasn’t any point in worrying about it. By the time it would become our problem, chances were the fight would already be over.

I risked a glance across the roof to make sure Shadow Stalker hadn’t come a cropper during Rune’s last attack. I needn’t have worried. She was still flitting merrily from structure to structure, apparently completely unharmed. As far as I could tell, Rune hadn’t seriously attempted to hit either of us so far. Then again, in Shadow Stalker’s case, that may not have been for lack of trying. Shadow Stalker was pretty damn nippy when she wanted to be and, unlike me, she could simply phase to leap over Rune’s obstacles. I envied her that mobility, even as I was grateful for it.

I just hoped she could manoeuvre into position to take a shot at Rune. That was certainly what I would’ve been doing in her place.

_Fuck, I wish we had comms._

I made a mental note to raise the subject again after this was over. Assuming, of course, that we survived the experience. As that thought went through my mind, a shadow passed overhead and I instantly darted aside, rearranging my metal once more. Concrete smacked into the battered roof again, sending up another spray of miniature projectiles. But it wasn’t that inconsequential flurry of stings that made my breath catch in my throat. Nor was it the burning of overtaxed muscles, nor the miscellaneous minor aches and pains of previous damage. Rather, it was the feeling of minute cracks spreading through the structure beneath my feet, like flesh parting beneath a very sharp blade.

_Hold,_ I commanded. Hellfire and damnation. We needed to get off this goddamn building. It wasn’t in great shape to begin with, and every impact damaged it more and more. I tried to reassure myself that the load-bearing structures were still intact; that no matter how it felt, the damage so far was largely cosmetic. But the longer this went on, the worse it would get. Much as I hated to admit it, there was only so much I could do to protect the apartment block. And if I was having to devote half of my attention to keeping the building together, I couldn’t fight back effectively.

I really hoped Shadow Stalker had a strategy in mind; that she wasn’t just reacting like I was right now. If she could just tag the bitch with a tranquilliser bolt, this would all be— Wait. If Rune lost consciousness, would her concrete slabs just fall out of the air? One impact at a time was bad enough. And what if Princess White Power was floating over empty space at the time? A fall from this height could kill her.

(A face, a gun, a hand on my shoulder.)

Even as that thought flashed through my mind, Shadow Stalker pushed off into the air, flickering into her namesake shadow so that her momentum carried her higher than would have otherwise been possible. Certainly high enough to draw a bead on her target. The barely-visible cloud started to coalesce into a familiar hazy outline, and I frantically started to figure out angles and trajectories.

Just like it had earlier, time seemed to slow…

_Fuck me,_ I thought, anticipation sharpening inside me like a knife. _We might actually—_

The moment shattered as a concrete slab smashed through Shadow Stalker’s still-gaseous form, scattering it to the winds. I blinked and lost sight of her; had to abandon the search briefly to dodge my own personal concrete albatross. I picked it up again as I once more ordered the building to _endure_. (Just surface damage still, mostly; just bruises and scrapes and cuts. No broken bones yet. Nothing I… Nothing it couldn’t take.)

_There!_

A patch of thickening shadow on the rooftop. Was that her, or just a trick of the light? Before I could figure it out, a concrete slab slammed into that very spot. And when it lifted off again, it left nothing behind but debris.

_There’s no body._ The thought seemed to come from a long way away, strangely devoid of emotion. _If that was her, she’s probably just scattered. It might take her a minute to pull herself back together again._

(Unless she couldn’t. Unless she was seriously hurt. Unless she was dead.)

As if on cue, a jeering voice drifted down from above.

“And then there was one, motherfucker.”

Over my head, concrete slabs circled like vultures.

For the third time this evening, time seemed to slow, priorities snapping into place in my mind. Before I could check on Shadow Stalker, I needed to deal with Rune. But before I did that I needed to get off this fucking rooftop.

I darted for the edge, uncomfortably aware of the hovering masses ready to smash into my body at any moment. My only consolation — galling though it was — was that Rune clearly wasn’t going all out. She seemed more interested in playing with me than killing me. Case in point, the chunk of concrete slamming into the rooftop just ahead of me, rather than simply squashing me flat. Absently willing the building to _keep holding_ , I silently apologised to its owners and inhabitants as I dusted a nearby chunk of brickwork, covering my nose and mouth with a fine mesh of metal that would hopefully keep the worst of it out of my lungs. Under cover of the rapidly spreading cloud, I swiftly changed course, sprinting towards the fire escape. Either my ruse worked, or Rune had decided to give me enough rope to hang myself before reeling me back in. Either way I made it to my target, and for the second time tonight I found myself diving off the side of a building.

The drop wasn’t any less terrifying the second time around. Still, I’d learned from my last attempt. This time, rather than hurling myself into a barely-controlled plummet with my metal serving as a glorified bungee cord, I slapped my cables against the fire escape, simultaneously anchoring them and making them _contract_. As I was yanked towards the side of the building more or less feet-first, I claimed only a little metal from the fire-escape, using it to thicken my cables and forge myself a harness. A fraction of a second to catch my balance and my breath, and then I pushed off again, commanding the anchoring ends of my cables to _slide_ down the metal they were bound to, letting me abseil towards the ground.

I swung out, dropped far enough and fast enough that my stomach shot right up into my mouth, and then jerked to a neck-cracking halt, smacking back into the fire escape again. With a start, I realised that there were people there. Civilians. Two adults and two children, all wearing nightclothes beneath their coats. A family. One of the children was clutching a worn teddy bear as if her life depended on not letting go of the stuffed toy. Presumably they were residents of the building who’d decided to evacuate via the fire escape. They jumped as my feet thumped against the metal, their heads snapping around to face me. Before I could say anything — what could I even say? — the adults were pushing the children behind them, putting themselves between them and the threat.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” I blurted, my stomach twisting with some sick, shivery feeling that had absolutely nothing to do with the drop below me. “I’m just heading down to the ground.” The parents seemed unconvinced, their bodies hunched and tense as they watched me with silent wariness. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was nothing I could have possibly said to convince them I wasn’t a threat to them. (Anyway, they weren’t precisely wrong.) The fear in their eyes burned me like acid. I couldn’t… couldn’t look at it any more.Anyway, it was only a matter of time before Rune figured out what I’d done and tracked me down. I needed to get a fucking move on.

I pushed off the fire escape again, once more commanding my cables to _slide_. Rattled by the encounter with the civilians, I let myself drop faster than was probably wise before catching myself with another of those bone-jolting stops. That was my ignominious descent in a nutshell: see-sawing between stomach-lurching free fall and jerking to a halt, occasionally smacking embarrassingly against the fire escape or the wall. Fluidly shifting bonds around turned out to be a lot fucking trickier when those bonds were the only things stopping me from falling to my death. Under other circumstances, I would’ve been utterly mortified by my gracelessness, especially in front of witnesses, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that family; about the fear in their eyes. (I couldn’t stop fretting that I might just have abandoned my partner to die alone on the rooftop.)

There were a couple of other people on the fire escape, but I gave them a wide berth. (A wave of ice went through me as I briefly imagined what might have happened to them if I’d simply claimed the whole fire escape as I had last time. I locked the thought away for now.) This was taking too long, far too long, far too fucking long, but that was probably better than the alternative. Even if I did spend the whole time expecting to get flattened between the wall and one of Rune’s concrete slabs. I wasn’t ashamed to admit I heaved a big sigh of relief when my feet finally touched the ground.

I took a moment to steady my legs and get my bearings, quickly scanning the skies until my gaze snagged on three dark shapes. Three rapidly growing dark shapes. And two of them were—

_Shit!_

I forced my battered body from a standing start into an all-out sprint as Rune slammed the concrete slabs into the ground edge first, narrowly avoiding being penned in by the new menhirs. I let momentum carry me onwards, seeking to put some distance between me and the apartment block, only to be brought up short by a huddled group of civilians. They clung to each other, staring with wide, terrified eyes at me, at the concrete slabs, at Rune. I stared too, frozen in place by the ice-water shock of panic. At the back of my mind, a yammering voice babbled over and over that the civilians were going to get hurt, they were going to get killed, and it would all be my—

“I didn't say you could leave, asshole,” Rune called down from above, her voice thankfully snapping me out of my stupid fit of whatever-it-was. The two concrete slabs lifted into the air again, hovering menacingly in place. “I’m not done teaching you a lesson about interfering in my business.”

_Her business? Was this her operation? Was Mike her lieutenant?_

I could speculate about that later. Right now, I had other problems. I gestured sharply to the civilians, hoping that even in their terrified state they would recognise a clear signal to ‘fuck off out of here ASAP’. Fortunately, some of the people seemed to get the message. One fit-looking man in a tracksuit and flip flops just turned and ran for it, but an older woman in a quilted dressing gown started quietly prodding the ones who were still frozen in place, getting them moving.

“I don’t need any lessons,” I shot back at Rune, more to buy some time than because I wanted to engage with the bitch. I was already casting the net of my power as wide as I could, searching for something I could use. “I like to think I’m already pretty fucking good at kicking ass. Come down here and I’ll give you a personal demonstration, free of charge.”

In response, she sent a concrete slab zipping past me, too fast for me to dodge it completely. It clipped my shoulder, the impact making my breath hiss through my teeth even though it barely even touched me. It was definitely going to leave a mark. I stumbled and would have fallen if I hadn't instinctively caught myself with my cables. The slab passed low over the heads of the fleeing apartment inhabitants and then abruptly slammed down in front of them, making them jump and yelp. More importantly, it also blocked their exit, effectively corralling them in the little courtyard in front of the apartment block.

_What the fuck is the bitch playing at? These are fucking civilians!_

Apparently they weren’t allowed to leave either. I pushed aside the unease shivering through me (the smell of iron in my nostrils, the feel of blood drying on my skin) and quickly went through my options. They weren’t great. Finding something I could use wasn’t the problem. Finding something I could use effectively without risking the civilians or causing too much collateral damage, on the other hand…

_Hellfire and damnation!_

“Funny,” Rune said, the word edged with steel. “You’re a real fucking comedian, aren’t you?”

The civilians were huddling together again, one or two of them murmuring in low, urgent voices. None of them were making any attempt to scale the wall that surrounded the courtyard, or to sidle around the building. I could understand that. (I tried not to think about what could happen to them. I tried not to think about what could already have happened to Shadow Stalker.) I’d have more freedom to act if they were out of range, but they were clearly going nowhere right now. Then again, maybe I could do something about that.

I cast my power out with a purpose, not bothering to reply to Rune. Mentally crossing my fingers that she wouldn’t notice what I was doing until it was too late, I commanded the ground beneath her concrete barricade to _bond_ , just like I’d done with the floor of the Wards HQ and Dennis’ chair. If I could claim it, I could dust it, serving the dual purpose of unblocking the exit and providing cover for the civilians’ escape. Except… Except it didn’t fucking work! The ground, as brittle as it was, still obeyed me, still reached out and grasped for the obstacle, but it was like there was nothing there for it to bond to. It was like Rune’s concrete slab just didn’t exist.

_Fuck._ This was going to complicate things. Maybe I could just make a break for it; lead Rune away? But what if she decided to make the civilians pay for my offences?

“Hey! I’m talking to you, bitch!”

I was already moving when the airborne slab ceased its circling and went into a nosedive, lashing out as hard as I could with my cables towards Rune’s platform as I ran. They fell short, but I’d been expecting that. The slab slammed against the ground behind me like a giant’s fist, seeing up a spray of grit and slivers that peppered my unshielded back and legs. At the same time, my cables hit their real target, and I instantly yanked them back again, together with the metal I’d pulled from the courtyard’s wrought-iron gate. Whirling around — praying I would be quick enough — I cast out what was now a net of metal, covering the slab and clutching tightly at the ground with its anchor lines.

The first sparks of relief started to flare into life within me, only to be doused by an icy wash of panic when the slab started to strain against its bonds. _Hold!_ I commanded, déjà vu briefly tried to drag me back to the rooftop (worse, back to the moment when that other apartment block finally succumbed to its wounds), but I shook it off, doing my level best to project a confidence I in no way felt as I addressed Rune.

“Like I give a shit what you have to say.” Cracks started to spread through the ground as she tested the bonds in earnest, forcing me to concentrate on keeping it together. Despair started to slither through my veins as I realised that this was a losing battle; that even with me reinforcing the ground and the metal as much as I could, sooner or later that slab was coming free. Probably sooner rather than later. _This would be so much easier if I could just dust the fucking thing!_ But I couldn’t, so there was no point in fretting about it. All I could do was make good use of the time I had. “Let the civilians go. Your fight’s with me, not them.”

“You shouldn’t have made me chase you, bitch,” she drawled, her voice words dripping with smug satisfaction. “Now I’m not just going to humiliate you, I’m going to do it in front of an audience.”

Pavement fractured like bones, and the slab came within a gnat’s cock of breaking free, but I gritted my teeth and forced my net to hold a little longer. I needed to piss Rune off. Well, even more than she already was. Specifically, I needed to piss her off enough that she’d get impatient and use her other weapon; the one that was currently acting as a barricade.

_What would Clockblocker do?_

“Kinky,” I heard myself say. “But not my thing. I guess you’ll have to find someone else to take part in your twisted fucking fantasies.”

My face was on fire beneath my mask, but from the way Rune spluttered and swore, she was definitely pissed off. More importantly, the barricade shot into the air. Even expecting something of the sort, the speed of it caught me by surprise. I shoved my body into motion, but I wasn’t quite fast enough. The projectile smacked into my back, knocking the wind out of me and sending me sprawling to the ground. Part of me — a weak, pathetic part — wanted to just lie there and whimper, but instead I sucked in a breath past the knot of pain in my middle, and forced myself to my feet.

I glanced around, relieved to see that the civilians were seizing the opportunity to make a break for it. Now all I had to do was hold Rune’s attention long enough for them to—

I felt the unmistakable snap of something breaking. For a brief, horrible moment, I thought I must have cracked a couple of ribs, that they’d given way completely as I stood, but then I realised it was concrete and metal that had yielded, not flesh and bone. Rune had broken her concrete slab free of my trap. Worse, it was heading right for me along with its companion, and there was no fucking way I could dodge them both. Acting more on instinct than anything else, I pulled more metal from my now-useless net and snapped out two thick cables, anchoring them to the wall. _Contract,_ I ordered, and they obeyed, yanking me through the air. It was a rough fucking flight — and a rougher fucking landing when I hit the wall harder than I’d intended — but still not as rough as being smacked around by those goddamned boulders would have been.

My body was going to be a mass of bruises and strains when this was done, but that wasn’t important right now. With the help of my metal, I scrambled up and over the wall. As soon as my feet hit the sidewalk, I sent my power whispering through it to carve a chunk out of what was hopefully an out of the way spot. A moment to mark Rune’s position — and to make sure that the civilians were out of the line of fire — and my cables lashed out again, snagging the piece of paving stone and hurling it skyward. My first shot was clumsy and weak, reaching nowhere near high enough. With my second attempt, I managed to get the metal to flex in just the right way to act as an improvised catapult, adding some force to my throw. That got it high enough, but it still missed the target by a country mile. The crash of breaking glass made me flinch inside, and I prayed fervently that no one had been on the other side of that window.

_I can fix it,_ I tried to console myself. It didn’t help. In any case, I had more immediate concerns.

I darted to the side, narrowly avoiding Rune’s first attack, and then dropped flat to let the second one pass over my head. My back complained at me when I pushed myself back to my feet. It complained more when I started to run, the pain settling into a knot of fire that flared with every step. I ignored it, of course. What the fuck else could I do?

“Run if you want,” Rune sneered, the concrete vultures making lazy circles above me. “All you’re going to do is tire yourself out.”

I kept moving, not bothering to dignify her words with a response. My muscles were already burning with the exertion, telling me that there was some truth to her words, but I ignored my body’s weakness to focus on my objectives. I wasn’t just fleeing aimlessly, after all. Casting my power out ahead of me as I ran, I carved another chunk out of the sidewalk. Risking a glance above me, I lashed out with my cables to grab the new rock and launch it into the air. It seemed the third time was the charm, my projectile smacking solidly enough into Rune’s conveyance to make it wobble a little. It wobbled again when I flung another piece of paving slab.

_Fuck, I can’t keep tearing up the sidewalk like this._ _Where the hell is an abandoned building or a vacant lot when I need one?_

(I tried not to think that this would have been so much easier if I didn’t give a shit about collateral damage.)

Rune cursed loudly, one arm and part of her blue robes briefly visible past the edge of the platform as she flailed for balance. I hurled another chunk of sidewalk at her, wincing inside at the damage I was causing to my surroundings. This time I left my cables connected instead of releasing the projectile from my grasp. Anticipation knifed through me as I waited for the right moment to—

_Stop!_

My projectile stopped just short of Rune as I ripped the bonds apart, turning the unassuming mass into a small fireball. She screamed, her platform — as well as the other two concrete slabs — dropping a little before steadying once again.

_Needs a certain amount of concentration,_ I noted absently. _Good to know._

Rune’s projectiles crashed down to earth one after the other, but they came nowhere close to hitting me; apparently she was firing blind. I wondered if I had actually blinded her, my stomach fluttering a little uneasily at the thought. It was probably just temporary, though. Seconds to minutes at most. The explosion shouldn’t have been close enough to seriously damage her eyes. Anyway, Othala could always heal her.

I hurled another couple of projectiles her way — no fireballs this time; I didn’t have a good enough sightline to be sure of my target — and flung out cables as far as I could, trying to lasso her platform. Frustratingly, they felt short, gravity tugging them downwards despite my best efforts. She was just too high up. Before I could try another approach her concrete slabs suddenly whizzed through the air towards me. Either she’d recovered her sight, or luck was really on her fucking side. I snapped out my cables, anchoring them to a streetlight up ahead and yanking myself through the air. Another rough flight, and another rough fucking landing. My arms felt like they were on the verge of being yanked out of their sockets even with my improvised harness and I hit the ground hard, only just managing to turn the impact into a forward roll that carried me to my feet again.

_Still better than being hit by those fucking concrete slabs of hers!_

The speed they were going, they might well have broken something if they’d actually hit me. I guessed that meant she was done playing nice.

_I need to step up my fucking game. Preferably without causing too much collateral damage._ I glanced at the cracked and cratered asphalt of the road where the slabs had struck it; the holes in the sidewalk where I’d ripped pieces of it free to use as projectiles. I winced. _Too much more more collateral damage,_ I amended.

Hellfire and fucking damnation.

Sending out a silent apology to the inhabitants of this neighbourhood, I made another couple of holes in the sidewalk, flinging two projectiles in quick succession. The first smacked solidly into Rune’s platform, making it wobble a little. The second clipped the edge and burst apart into a cloud of grit and powder. I hoped the bitch breathed it in and hacked up a lung. At the very least, it might obscure her view of the street. Given the distinct lack of concrete slabs raining down from above, it seemed to have done something. Which meant I needed to make the most of this opportunity.

Okay. I needed to either ground the bitch, or find a way to get up there to her. Either way, I was almost certainly going to need more metal. There were parked cars here and there, but I resisted the urge to reach out and claim them. (Not unless the situation got truly desperate.) Instead, I cast my power through as much of the ground as I could, visualising bonds reaching forth like cilia, grasping, binding and releasing again.

_There’s something…_

I pulsed my power again, this time focusing on one specific area and the velvet smoothness that thrummed in a familiar, pleasant way to my senses. Galvanised steel. A chain-link fence, by the shape of it. Not ideal, but definitely something I could use. More to the point, it was the closest source of usable metal. I forced my flagging body into giving me a burst of speed. It wasn’t too far, just a little way up ahead and around the corner. I could do this. More to the point, I didn’t have a fucking choice.

A sound caught my attention: the roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres on asphalt. Whoever the fuck they were, they were approaching fast. No sooner had dread started to clutch at me with icy fingers, a beat-up van rounded the corner up ahead — the same corner I’d been aiming for — and screeched to a halt.

“There he is!” a hoarse, pained voice called out. “Let’s fuck him up!”

Almost before the vehicle stopped moving, the side slid open to disgorge a gaggle of mostly shaven-headed thugs waving baseball bats and brass knuckles. Some of them were looking a little worse for wear, some of them weren’t, but every last one of them was glaring daggers in my direction.

_Well, fuck._

I jerked to a halt before I ran straight into them, biting back a curse as something in my back twinged. I started to flick out my cables towards a streetlight across the road, intending to yank myself towards it, but Rune slammed a concrete slab down, blocking my way and pinning my cables to the ground. Briefly contemplating taking the time to extract the trapped metal, I opted instead to simply sever the cables, drawing what remained back towards me. It pained me to lose even a little of my metal, but better that than letting myself be immobilised. (I tried not to think about severing my own hair to free myself from my father’s implacable grip.) In any event, I had another problem. The concrete was blocking the part of the road and the sidewalk not currently occupied either by the van or the thugs. Before I could even start to figure out another route, there was a second impact, and a third, and a fourth as Rune drove her other projectile into the ground behind me.

_Message received, loud and fucking clear._

The group of armed and angry assholes weren’t advancing on me yet, but whether they were waiting for Rune’s permission or just trying to find the balls to attack a cape head on, it was undoubtedly only a matter of time.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Rune called down obligingly, her smug tone grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I tried to console myself with the fact that, beneath the sickly sweetness, her voice was noticeably ragged around the edges. “You’re not worth my time. They can deal with you.”

Hellfire and damnation.

These fuckers might have been fewer in number than the Empire and ABB assholes I’d waded through earlier, but they still outnumbered me seven to one. Eight, if the driver joined in, nine if I counted the wrecked-looking loudmouth who’d pointed me out. And they were all free to focus their attention exclusively on me. Pretty shitty odds even at the best of times and I’d just spent a while running my ass off, hurling myself around and occasionally being smacked by telekinetically wielded concrete slabs.

This was really, really going to suck.

‘What the fuck are you waiting for, girl?’ Dad’s voice growled in the back of my mind, the ghost of heat and citrus-cobalt effervescence pulsing along my nerves with every word. ‘You know what to do.’

_Go fuck yourself,_ I growled back. _I’m better than that._

Although it did give me an idea. I just needed to buy myself a moment or two to set it up. (And to make sure my power was firmly under my control.)

My metal bristling, I drew myself up, doing my level best to conceal the fact that the bulk of my attention was elsewhere. And that a hair-thin tendril of metal flicked out to claim the streetlight just ahead of me.

“You really think they can deal with me?” I sneered. I had to break off there as the scratchiness in my throat threatened to turn into a full-on coughing fit. Hopefully they’d take it for a dramatic pause. “Don’t make me laugh, bitch. Still, I’m always happy to smack around a few assholes. Even pathetic ones who already ran away from me once today.”

Maybe that would make them hesitate. Maybe. I wasn’t holding out much hope. Judging by the threats and invective they started hurling my way, though, I’d certainly succeeded in pissing them off. If I was lucky, it would make them careless. If I wasn’t… Well.

_This had better fucking work._

I was cutting it pretty fine. Some of the braver ones were already starting to advance, hefting their weapons threateningly. Sending up a silent prayer, I ripped apart the bonds in a very carefully delineated piece of sidewalk, turning it into a small fireball. It wasn’t all that impressive as far as explosions went, but the thugs jumped and squawked, flinching back from the rapidly guttering flames. I grinned fiercely at their reactions and dissolved my shield back into cables, snapping out a wire to claim a freestanding wall. With barely a thought, the wall became an expanding cloud of dust. At the same time, a more precise command severed the wires in the streetlight, plunging the area into shadow. I drove myself forward into the rapidly thickening haze.

_Let’s see how many of these fuckers have trained in blind fighting._

My lungs struggled a little even with the improvised filters over my mouth and nose, but I shoved the discomfort aside and focused on my objective. (There was a cold, prickly feeling inside, like I’d swallowed a ball of ice-cold needles, and I knew I’d be suffering a fuck of a lot more than just discomfort if I fucked this up.) Consulting my mental map, I launched myself at the big motherfucker who’d been the first of the bunch to step forward.

’Break the strongest of them, and the rest will hesitate.’

Mr Big’s snarled threats had dissolved into a hacking cough, conveniently confirming his location. The cough turned into a pained yelp when I rammed my knee into his crotch, and then shifted into a bubbling moan after I followed up by crushing his nose with my elbow. He folded. He didn’t resist when my wires plucked the baseball bat from his hands and deposited it in mine, but just in case he had any fight left I made sure to kick it out of him.

_One down. Too fucking many to go._

I hefted the bat experimentally as I moved, absently splitting all but two of my cables into a forest of fine tendrils and pushing them out around me. I’d rather have had more metal, but the bat would have to do until I got within range of the van. I strained my ears, trying to figure out how many of the enemy were between me and my objective.

_Too. Fucking. Many._

Speaking of which…

This one apparently had the sense to try to keep quiet, but that didn’t help him when he brushed against my metal. A moment to orient myself, and I swung the bat hard, the shock of impact jolting up my arms as his breath whooshed out of him. He jackknifed forward, and I pulled the bat in towards me again, pivoting to swing the weapon into his back. The blow was enough to send him stumbling to his knees, but he still managed to find enough breath for speech.

“Here!” he yelled hoarsely. “The bitch is—”

I smacked him a couple more times, his words dissolved into a pained wheezing as he slumped to the ground, but the mingled sounds of shuffling footsteps and overlapping curses were already filling the air. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. It might even be to my advantage if it pulled some of them away from the van. Almost before I finished the thought, two figures loomed out of the haze. My metal gave me just enough warning that I didn’t end up trapped between the fuckers, but there wasn’t enough space for me to go around them.

_That’s okay. I’ll just go through._

I opened by cracking the pavement under their feet, making them stumble, and then lashed out with my commandeered bat. My limbs were heavy, exhaustion dragging on them like lead weights. I shook it off as best as I could (ignoring the fact that doing so was getting harder and harder; that there was a knot of fire in my middle that shortened my breath and sent spikes of pain through me with every movement) and forced myself to keep pressing the offensive. One of the assholes went down, but the other lunged for me, apparently made of sterner stuff. Knew how to throw a punch, too, much to my cost; my reactions slow enough that I didn’t quite manage to avoid the blow.

“Got you,” he gloated. I gritted my teeth and thumped him back, disengaging while he reeled. I really couldn’t afford to let this asshole get his hands on me. “Fucking cunt,” he spat; literally, from the wet splat that accompanied his words. “Should’ve minded your own—” He broke off as I smacked him with the bat again, letting out a pained grunt before throwing another punch my way. I managed to dodge this one, but I was painfully aware of the footsteps and voices drawing closer, reminding me that time was of the essence. I swung the bat again, this time cracking it hard against his kneecap, hard enough that he cried out, his leg giving way. It probably wasn’t broken. Probably. “Fuck!”

“Pete?” The voice was far too close for comfort, the speaker stumbling into my warning tendrils a moment later. “That you?”

It was getting way too crowded around here. Punchy was down but not out, but Mouthy here was probably a bigger threat just for being uninjured. Plus, the rest of the asshole gang would be on me any second now. I could stand and fight… or I could take advantage of the distraction to properly arm and armour myself. And then kick their asses. Not a difficult choice, in the end. And the van should be right… over…

“You can’t hide forever,” Punchy called out, his voice harsh with anger and — I hoped — pain. I rolled my eyes as I made my careful, quiet way toward my target. Was he really expecting me to give away my position by replying?

“Yeah,” said the one who’d called him Pete. “We’re going to get you, bitch.”

“Yeah!” A voice I recognised. Apparently the loudmouth who’d pointed me out had decided to join in after all. He coughed a little, and then in a voice that still somehow managed to drip with menace, he wheezed, “And then we’re gonna have some fun.”

_‘Aw, don’t be like that. We just want to have a little fun, that’s all.’_

_Parker loomed over me, Grier lounging in the doorway and Drake an ominous presence in my peripheral vision. I could smell the lingering odour of those nasty-ass home-rolled cigarettes Parker liked to smoke, mingling unpleasantly with the cocktail of stale sweat and deodorant that was a permanent fixture of the gang’s gym and sparring area. I wanted to tell Parker to fuck off but my throat had locked up tight, and I just couldn’t force out the words. I hoped they were just fucking with me — some stupid prank or hazing, maybe — but my instincts were telling me that I wasn’t that lucky. Parker took a sudden step forward, reaching out a hand. I smacked his arm aside and took a step—_

‘Focus, girl! Or I’ll fucking **make** you focus.’

I snapped back, the shock of it like being doused with ice-water. My heart was racing like a runaway train, lungs straining in a way that had nothing to do with the dust around me. My skin was cold and clammy. My muscles were locked so tightly I was almost quivering in place, nerves humming like live wires.

I sensed movement and reacted instinctively, lashing out with my cables and then lunging forward to press the attack. Metal flowed with my movements like water, easy as breathing, and for one shining moment I felt invincible. Untouchable. Inviolate. But then I realised I didn’t remember claiming the van; didn’t remember wrapping myself in steel. Didn’t remember turning my cables to razor-wire.

My stomach rolled like a storm-tossed ocean. Horror turned my blood to ice as I hurriedly blunted them again, checking and double checking to make sure they **stayed** blunt, all the while helplessly wondering if I’d k… If I’d hurt someone more than I meant to.

“For fuck’s sake, what’s taking so long?” Rune shouted down. “There’s only one of her!”

The bitch sounded worried. _She fucking should be worried._ She’d just reminded me that, much as I wanted to smack seven shades of shit out of these motherfuckers, they weren’t priority targets. Rune was. And now I had enough metal to take the bitch down. Thanks to the gaggle of thugs, bringing her down to earth was no longer a viable option. So that meant I’d just have to go to her.

I moved as quickly and carefully as I could, this time trying to avoid whichever members of the asshole brigade were still standing. (I tried not to worry if all of those I’d put on the ground would be getting back up again. I tried not to wonder the same thing about Shadow Stalker.) I just hoped the dust would last long enough to cover me while I got into position.

Con: the buildings here were either too low or too new to have external fire escapes. Pro: that meant some of them were low enough to be climbable. Con: I wasn’t going to be able to make the climb in armour. Pro: I could still get my metal up there.

I sent the bulk of my metal creeping up the wall like ivy, cables and wires helping me spider my way up the uneven brickwork. (My body complained, but I ignored it.) It made my skin crawl to divest myself of my newly-claimed protection, and I was painfully aware of what a vulnerable position I was in if someone spotted me, but it couldn’t be helped. I tried to take consolation in the fact that even though flying capes weren’t exactly uncommon, by and large people still neglected to look up. And unless she moved forward to get a better look at the kerfuffle, I wasn’t in Rune’s line of sight.

“She’s gone.”

I froze. That voice… Brusque, clipped and horribly, horribly familiar.

What the **fuck** was Lance doing here? Aside from the obvious.

His words provoked a commotion, but he cut across the babble, his tone authoritative and commanding. It was fucking weird to hear it like this.

“She’s either made a break for it or she’s going on the offensive. Spread out, keep your eyes peeled and don’t forget to look up.”

_Son of a_ **_bitch_ ** _!_

I forced myself back into motion, anger lending me speed despite the needles of pain darting through me from my shoulder and back. I made it up and over the lip of the roof, gathering my metal as I searched for my target. Rune had moved from her last position, but it didn’t take me long to locate her. She’d retrieved her projectiles from the ground, and now they flew in formation with her platform.

“Probably ran scared,” she sneered, and I bit my tongue on an angry response, pushing aside the useless emotion to focus on the best way to take the blue-robed bitch out. Like as not, I would only get one shot at this, and I couldn’t afford to fuck it up.

I readied my metal, took a slow, deep breath… and then paused as movement on the roof opposite caught my eye; movement on the roof opposite. A dark-clad figure stepping out of the shadows to crouch at the edge of the roof. A familiar figure.

_She’s not dead!_ I was so stunned by Shadow Stalker’s appearance that I actually froze, watching as she drew her crossbows and took aim at Rune. A moment later, I cudgelled my brain into gear, adjusting for her presence. It was clearly better to let her take her shot, but I needed to be ready to act in case she missed. And in case she didn’t. I fought the stupid urge to hold my breath as Shadow Stalker lined up her shot.

“Rune, **down**!”

Rune dropped instantly — flattening herself on her slab, which in turn dropped about half a foot in the air — Shadow Stalker’s bolts passing harmlessly over her head.

_Goddammit, Lance!_

I guessed he’d followed his own fucking advice.

Shadow Stalker took aim again, but Rune’s projectiles were already in motion, soaring through the air like the world’s most ungainly birds of prey. Rune herself shot upwards, once again using her platform as a shield and charting an erratic, altitude-gaining course that suggested she had at least a passing familiarity with evasive measures. A second pair of bolts clanked against the platform before Shadow Stalker had to dart aside.

I couldn’t help but wince as the concrete slabs thumped into the building, trying not to let myself get distracted by thoughts of cracked masonry and collapsing supports.

_I really fucking wish we had comms._

I quickly reshaped one of my cables, making it thicker, and adding a bulbous weight to the end.

“There’s the other one!”

Not Lance this time; one of the other bastards. Hardly surprising I’d been spotted, given that everyone and their dog was probably looking up now. I sent the weighted cable sailing through the air, very much aware of the concrete missile peeling off to head towards me. My cable hit the edge of her platform, momentum letting the weight continue its arc. _Split,_ I commanded, and the solid ball dissolved into a mass of tendrils spreading out in all directions, looking for… _There!_

I seized Rune’s ridiculously flappy cloak, tendrils weaving through it, acting as a guide for the rest of the metal as it condensed and flowed towards her. She yelped when I wrapped a cable around her ankles, but that was nothing to the shriek she gave when I yanked her right off her platform feet first. I hoped she smacked her face on her own concrete. All three slabs dropped about a foot in the air before jerking to a halt, almost as if something had disrupted the bitch’s concentration.

“You’d better not struggle too hard,” I called down, filling my voice with ice to mask the way my pulse was racing. I not-quite-accidentally smacked her against the wall as I set about binding her more securely. “I might just drop you.” I slackened the tension in the cable just a little, letting her drop a few inches before I reeled her back up. To her credit, she stayed silent that time. I hoped she bit her fucking tongue.

“You’re going to pay for this,” she gasped out. Even muffled by the cloak that had fallen over her face, her words held an impressive amount of menace. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re g—”

Her words turned into an indistinct mumble as I covered her mouth with metal. (I made sure I didn’t end up accidentally blocking her nostrils as well. I wanted to silence her, not suffocate her.)

“I didn’t give you permission to speak,” I told her, contracting her bindings just a little — more than enough for her to feel the pressure through her robes and bodysuit; maybe enough for it to hurt — before relaxing them again. Movement caught my eye, her concrete slabs starting to slide through the air. I tried not to admire her fortitude. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The last thing you want is for me to be…” I dropped her almost a foot this time; reeled her up again with a jerk. “Distracted.” Maybe if she believed her survival depended on my concentration, she’d be a little less eager to test me. “In fact, I think you’d better just set them down on the ground. Safer for everyone that way.” Her projectiles stilled, hanging there in the air for a long, tense moment, and then they slowly settled to the ground. I held in a sigh of relief, keeping my voice cold. “Good girl.”

She shouted something, or tried to, her words rendered unintelligible by the gag. Nevertheless, I got the gist. I tightened her bonds again, and this time I left them like that. It wasn’t out of cruelty. (Well, not mainly. I couldn’t deny it gave me a certain amount of vicious satisfaction, but I was only human.) The more distracted she was, the less likely she was to be able to mount an effective counterattack.

“The rest of you, drop your weapons and get down on the ground,” Shadow Stalker called out, pre-empting me. The combination of dust and the dead streetlight still hid part of the street from view, but as far as I could tell none of the visible thugs seemed to be moving. “ **Now** , assholes,” she barked impatiently, covering the general area with her crossbows. “If you don’t drop, Rune does.”

I winced despite myself.

(A face. A gun. A hand on my shoulder.)

‘Never make a threat you aren’t prepared to carry out.’

A scream ripped through the air; a woman’s scream, high-pitched and terrified. A few moments later, a new figure stumbled out of the gloom, wobbling to a halt in the middle of the road. Her dark hair was loose about her shoulders and she was clad only in a nightgown. Her feet were bare.

“What the fuck?” Shadow Stalker’s words echoed my own thoughts.

“Please,” said the woman, looking first at Shadow Stalker, and then at me. She was clutching one arm, and I could see a dark stain spreading over the pale material of her nightgown. “Please do what he says. He… They’ve got my husband and children! Please. Y- You’re heroes, aren’t you? Please don’t let them kill my family.”

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

_He’s bluffing,_ I tried to tell myself. _He wouldn’t. Would he?_

“It’s a bluff,” Shadow Stalker sneered. Whatever words I might have had were stuck in my throat.

“I don’t make empty threats.” If my voice had been cold, Lance’s was positively arctic. “You’re going to let Rune down to ground level — gently — and then you’re going to let her go.”

“Like hell she is!”

I still couldn’t make myself speak.

The woman had her gaze fixed on me. “Please,” she said again, the word barely audible.

_I’m not a hero,_ I wanted to tell her.

The sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot made me jump despite myself, my heart in my mouth as a chorus of yelling and screaming filled the air.

“Quiet,” Lance barked, and he sounded so much like Dad I had to fight the urge to stand to attention. “That was just a warning shot,” he continued. “The next one won’t be. Now, unless you want small bodies on your hands I suggest you do as you’re fucking told.”

What the fuck could I do? My thoughts chased themselves round and round in circles. I could hurt Rune, but he’d likely retaliate against the civilians. I could threaten to do worse than hurt her, but I… I couldn’t, wouldn’t follow through with it. He fucking knew that, too. He knew me. And I knew him. Which was why I swallowed down my impotent rage and started lowering Rune to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Shadow Stalker yelled, shocked and angry. “You can’t just let her go!”

“We caught her once,” I said, as flatly as I could. “We’ll do it again.”

_Please don’t fuck this up, Shadow Stalker,_ I prayed. _Don’t do anything that’ll force his hand._

I wasn’t exactly gentle about depositing Rune on the ground, nor about freeing her from her restraints. I left the gag for last, of course. When I was done, she scrambled to her feet in an undignified flurry of robes. She started to say something, but I spoke right over her.

“You’ve got what you wanted. Now let the civilians go.”

“Not yet. First, we’re going to—” He broke off so suddenly I wondered if Shadow Stalker had shot him with a tranquilliser bolt. But then I heard it: the sound of sirens. Distinctive sirens. “PRT inbound!”

Conflicting urges pulled me in two different directions, but before I was even aware I’d made a decision, I found myself stepping off the roof.

“Get the wounded in the van,” Rune ordered, racing for one of her concrete slabs.

No time to for slow but safe; no time for a controlled descent. This was a leap of faith.

“The van’s fucked,” one of her thugs said. “That cunt wrecked it.”

The ground hit me like one of Dad’s punches, pain flaring like a supernova as the impact seemed to travel all the way through me.

“Then get them onto my platforms. I can carry everyone.” Was it my imagination, or did she sound less than confident? Didn’t matter. She wasn’t my priority right now. None of these motherfuckers were.

‘Leave an enemy at your back and you’re asking to be stabbed in it.’

_Fuck off, Dad._

I pulled as much metal as I could to me and forced my body into a jog. The sirens were getting closer.

_Come on, come on… There!_

The unmistakable sound of children crying was coming from the other side of the van’s remains. I quieted my steps, forming a mirror from my metal and positioning it low to the ground, where it was less likely to be seen. Angling it around the corner, I could see two small, crying children, a battered, defeated-looking man… and Lance, holding a gun on them. I considered my options, wondering if I could take the gun out of the equation before he could pull the trigger, if I could take him out without putting the hostages at risk. In the end, though, there was only one thing I could do.

“Let the hostages go.”

“Should’ve known you’d do something stupid.” Did he sound disappointed? “Come around here where I can see you.”

The ‘or else’ might have been unspoken, but it was almost deafening to my ears. I obeyed, of course. What the fuck else could I do?

“Let them go,” I said, surprised at how calm I sounded. “You start dropping civilian bodies — especially children — and you’re going to bring some serious heat down on your commander’s head. Hardly the actions of a good subordinate.”

Was I imagining that twitch? I definitely wasn’t imagining the snarl in his voice when he spat, “If you and your partner don’t do anything stupid, no one has to get hurt. This is just insurance.”

The man’s gaze was locked on me, begging me wordlessly to do something; to save his family. The same way his wife had begged me.

_I’m not a hero,_ I thought again, helplessly. _I’m just a coward with nowhere else to go._

“Just the children, then. You don’t need three hostages. And you can move faster if you don’t have to wrangle kids.”

He paused before replying; hesitating maybe.

“Fine. Kids, go to her.” They just whimpered and clung to each other. “Now!” he barked.

“Go on,” their father said encouragingly. “It’s okay.”

Nothing about this was even remotely close to ‘okay’, but the rugrats did what they were told, scampering over to stand behind me.

Their father gave me the most pathetically grateful look. It made my fucking skin crawl. Didn’t he realise they were still in danger? As if to hammer that point home, Rune abruptly descended from the skies.

“Get on,” she said quickly, and then froze as her gaze lit on me. “You!”

“No time,” Lance said quickly. He wasn’t wrong: from the sound of the sirens, the PRT were pretty fucking close. “She won’t interfere.”

Keeping his gun trained on his hostage, he backed towards the platform and sat carefully on the edge.

“Maybe we should take her with us,” Rune said. “Finish teaching her that lesson about interfering in my business.”

“More trouble than she’s worth,” Lance said. He shifted his aim. Now the gun was pointing squarely at me. I froze; staring at him in disbelief. He met my gaze, and then very deliberately dropped his eyeline. What was he…? _Oh shit!_

Rune was talking again, but her words were only so much babble. I frantically made my metal _flow_ , and then my ears were filled with thunder, pain exploding in my chest. I staggered, almost fell, just about managed to brace myself against the van, gasping uselessly for breath. It felt like there was a massive weight on my chest, pressing me down. Turning my head was an effort, but desperation lent me the strength to glance behind me, where I saw two small figures huddled behind my hurriedly thrown-up shield. They were clinging together, mouths open and faces wet and red, bawling their little eyes out — not that I could hear it — but they seemed undamaged.

I sent up a silent prayer of thanks, forcing myself to lift my gaze even though all I wanted to do was sink to the ground and whimper. Three dark shapes were rapidly gaining altitude and distance, drawing further away with every second that ticked by. They were going to get away; had already gotten away, unless Shadow Stalker… But she rounded the corner and stopped dead, glancing from me to the fleeing Empire members and back to me again. With a sharp, angry motion, she holstered her crossbows and came over to me. I could faintly hear her voice through the ringing in my ears, but I couldn’t make out the words. Still, I could get the gist.

I drew in a slow, painful breath. It felt like I was forcing my lungs to inflate through willpower alone, pushing against the weight on my chest.

“I’m fine,” I said, or hoped I did. It was hard to tell how understandable I was when I could only just hear my own voice. “Shot me, but hit my armour.” I rapped my knuckles against the metal covering my torso, fighting back a shudder when I sensed the two flattened masses that hadn’t been there before.

_Twice! The bastard shot me twice!_

I couldn’t quite believe he’d done it at all.

Shadow Stalker said something else, but I shook my head and tapped my ear. It must have got the message across, because she raised her voice, speaking slowly and precisely as she said, “We need to go.”

I tried to push myself upright and almost dropped to my knees.

“You go,” I told her, somehow managing to dredge up a smile and add, “No sense—“ A coughing fit racked my body, sending little starbursts of pain shooting through me. “No sense in us both being caught.”

(No sense in us both going to the basement.)

She hesitated, and I half-wondered if she was going to ask if I was sure, but then she nodded sharply. All she said was, “Good luck. We’ll talk later.” And then she was gone.

I stood there for a moment, leaning heavily on what was left of the van, and took as deep a breath as I could manage. Biting back several epithets that Ms Price would undoubtedly have frowned at, I forced myself to stand up straight.

_If I can… can breathe,_ I told myself firmly, _I can stand._ (I may have had to use my metal for support, but it still fucking counted.) Another breath; another swallowed stream of invective. _If I can st- stand, I can move._ I let go of the van and took a step. (Sure, I was still using my metal to keep myself upright, and I’d bitten my tongue so hard I could taste blood in my mouth, but it still counted.) _Maybe I can get out of here after all._

My ears were still ringing as if a whole convention of campanologists had set up shop in there, but I’d recovered enough of my hearing to realise the futility of that hope. Nevertheless, I still had to try. There was a narrow alleyway just up ahead. If I could make it there, there was a chance — a slim chance — I could find somewhere to hide until I saw an opportunity to make a run… _No, let’s be realistic._ To make a plod for it.

Another breath, another step. I glanced around, my gaze snagging on the former hostages. The father was hugging his children like he was never going to let them go. They were clinging to him and sobbing. He looked up, met my eyes and, bizarrely, smiled.

“Thank you,” he said. I couldn’t hear the words — he must have murmured them too quietly — but I could read his lips.

I just stared stupidly at him for a moment, utterly confused. Didn’t he realise it was my fault his family had been in danger in the first place? That I’d brought the fight to them with my headlong flight? That they’d only been dragged into the line of fire because I’d failed to put Rune down quickly enough? But he was still staring at me with that weirdly grateful expression, so I made myself nod at him.

“That’s okay,” I mumbled. I couldn’t quite bring myself to say ‘you’re welcome’.

It was past time I got the fuck out of here. I was painfully aware of the PRT squaddies milling around on the other side of the van. Any moment now, someone was going to come around that corner and see me.

_Come on!_ I ordered my recalcitrant body. The skin of my back crawled like a hill full of ants. _I’ve had worse damage than this before. Just get over there!_ One foot after another. Step by painful step, my target drew closer.

“Going somewhere?”

Hellfire and damnation!

I ground to a halt. It wasn’t like I could run right now, and there was no point in giving them an excuse to put me down hard. The voice was familiar, and I wondered glumly which PRT squad would be bearing witness to the extent of my fuck up. It wasn’t until I saw the costume that I realised it wasn’t a squaddie who’d run — well, slowly ambled — me down.

Assault sauntered towards me, looking for all the world as if he was just out for an evening stroll. My metal started bristling without conscious command, but I gritted my teeth and made it stand the fuck down. I absolutely did not need to add ‘attacking a Protectorate cape’ to today’s list of crimes.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, holding out his hands in what was supposed to be a calming gesture. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching anyway. “I just want to talk, that’s all.” He paused expectantly, but even if I’d wanted to respond, I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. After letting the silence stretch just long enough to get uncomfortable, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

Finally something I knew how to handle.

I straightened my spine as much as I could, meeting Assault’s gaze from the depths of my hood. “I’m fine.” Not quite the question he’d asked, but close enough. “The asshole only shot me twice,” I was horrified to hear myself add.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I was so preoccupied with self-recrimination that it took me a moment to realise that Assault was laughing. He soon sobered, though, moving close enough to look me up and down.

“That is an interesting definition of ‘fine’ you have.”

“It didn’t go through my armour,” I hastened to assure him. “I’ll have a couple of bruises, but that’s it.” I carefully didn’t mention the other bumps and scrapes I’d picked up over the course of the evening.

Assault glanced around, made a thoughtful sound, and then looked at me. His next words were deadly serious; completely devoid of anything resembling humour.

“Are you fit to make it back to the HQ under your own steam, without injuring yourself any further?”

Confused, it took a me moment or two to muster the wherewithal to answer his question. “Yes, Sir.”

“Promise?”

This was fucking bizarre.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Okay. Get yourself to the infirmary as soon as you get back.” He paused, and pointed sternly at me. “I’ll be checking in with them, so don’t think you can get out of it. Understand?”

I resolved to just keep agreeing with him until things started making sense again.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Excellent. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He grimaced. “And stop calling me Sir.”

“Yes,” I began automatically, and then made myself stop. “Okay.”

“Awesome.” He cleared his throat quietly, yet — somehow — dramatically. “Now, it’s a damn shame I didn’t manage to catch up with that independent hero who almost brought Rune in. Oh well. These things happen.” _What?_ “Go on. Get out of here before someone else sees you.”

I had no fucking clue what his game was. Between the civilians’ accounts and the metric fucktonne of evidence I’d left, the PRT would surely figure out I was involved regardless of whether or not they caught me red-handed. Letting me go now was only delaying the inevitable. But that wasn’t nothing. And I couldn’t say I wasn’t grateful for it.

“Uh, thanks?”

I hadn’t intended to make it a question.

He laughed again. “Don’t thank me yet, kid.” I wasn’t sure whether or not I was imagining the ominous note in his voice. I definitely wasn’t imagining the edge of impatience when he continued, “Now will you scram already?”

“Scramming now,” I muttered, and set about doing just that. One slow, painful step at a time.

* * * * *

There was something weirdly comforting about falling back on the habits instilled by a lifetime of training. This could almost be one of the exercises Dad had made me run over and over and over and over again, dropping me off in some strange place with an objective to complete. Whatever the primary task might have been, there was always the zeroth objective: make my way to the rendezvous point without being caught. And I got **fucking** good at not being caught.

(Apart from when it really counted.)

A chill breeze knifed through me as I reached the all-too-exposed bus stop, making me shiver.

Of course, there was a downside with being able to fall back on ingrained habit. It gave me time to think. And I had a fuck of a lot to think about. Like whether I’d (killed anyone) hurt anyone too badly. Like why Assault had let me go. Like what the fallout was going to be. (Whatever it was, it would be okay. It would. I’d endure it. If I broke, I’d just pull myself back together again. And then I’d know for sure just how bad it could get.)

But what I found myself circling back to again and again and again wasn’t any of those things. It was a word, that was all. The mother had used it. The father had used it. Even Assault had used it. One word. Four letters. And it cut me deeper than a knife.

_I’m not a hero,_ I thought again, helplessly. I huddled deeper on the torn and tattered bus seat. There must have been an open window somewhere, because that icy breeze cut right through me once again, making me shiver.

_But I’m starting to think my brother might be a monster._


	54. Atychiphobia 4.09

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to frustratedFreeboota for once again going above and beyond as a beta reader.

I really didn’t want to be here.

My steps dragged as I made my way through the byzantine beige-painted corridors of the PRT building. If Assault hadn’t said he’d check up on me, I might have been tempted to just quietly forget my promise. But he had, which meant I didn’t exactly have a choice. The last thing I needed now was to add ‘disobeying a direct order from a superior’ to my list of sins. _Anyway,_ a small, treacherous voice in the back of my mind piped up. _It’s not such a bad idea to get checked out._

I rotated my sore shoulder and bit my tongue, cursing silently as I tasted fresh blood in my mouth from where I’d bitten it before.

Against my will, I found myself remembering the bored, detached way in which Amy had recited the laundry list of damage I’d been unknowingly harbouring. The passionate lecture I’d gotten from Nick during my power assessment about the importance of rest and healing time. And, last but not least, Dr Hart’s scathing remarks about my apparent inability to take care of myself following my conversation with Lance. It went against a lifetime’s worth of instincts, but I found myself thinking that maybe they all had a point.

Sighing softly — and fighting the stupid urge to clutch at my aching ribs — I made myself pick up the pace as much as I could, marching toward my doom. The duty nurse looked up from her computer as I entered the infirmary. I didn’t recognise her at all, but from the way her expression changed, she seemed to recognise me.

“Talos. What did you do to yourself now?” she asked, her voice sharp with a completely unreasonable amount of suspicion. Or… wait. Not suspicion. Concern?

I blinked at her for a moment, taken aback. “Nothing.” The denial was instinctive, and I held in a wince at how defensive I sounded, amending my answer to, “Nothing too serious, anyway. Some falling and impact damage. I was trying out some new manoeuvrability techniques.” All technically true, if a little misleading in aggregate.

The nurse — Lynne Cooper, according to her name badge — shook her head. “At least you didn’t have to be dragged in this time,” she murmured, getting to her feet. “That’s something, I suppose.”

_I didn’t have to be dragged in last time!_ I only just kept myself from grumbling petulantly. I was already on my way when Dennis had needlessly gotten Carlos involved.

There must have been a draft in here, because I had to suppress a shiver. The familiar way Nurse Cooper was speaking to me was starting to make me uneasy. I really didn’t remember ever talking to her before. I didn’t think she’d even been on duty during any of my previous visits.

“I’m sorry,” I said, striving for a neutral tone. “Have we met?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘met’, exactly.” She smiled a little as she came around to my side of the nurse’s station. “You were unconscious at the time.”

(I’d been completely unable to defend myself. They could have done anything they wanted to me, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop them.)

“Oh.” I hoped my discomfort wasn’t obvious. I reminded myself that these people were medical professionals. Their job was to help, not harm.

“Alright, let’s get you sat down, and then I’ll go and call the doctor. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

Without further ado, she led me over to a bed and quickly bustled off again. I took advantage of the opportunity to check my phone, a little startled to find a message from Hess.

‘How’d things go?’

I stared at my phone for a few moments, considering and discarding a number of possible replies, not wanting to say anything incriminating just in case the PRT decided to check my message history. I thought very strongly about saying ‘confusing as fuck’, but settled on, ‘Fine. You?’

‘Fine.’

I guessed that meant she’d made it back home without incident. I felt a tension ease that I hadn’t even realised I’d been carrying.

‘Good,’ I found myself texting back. Hess might’ve been a grade-A bitch, but she was still a teammate.

‘Didn’t know you cared,’ was the reply. Because of course it fucking was. And, naturally, Nurse Cooper returned with the doctor before I could respond, which meant that Hess got the last word. Again. Because of course she fucking did.

“Why am I not surprised to see you back here?” Dr Hart grumbled, closing the privacy curtain behind her with a sharp tug.

Her question sounded like a rhetorical one, so I didn’t bother to answer it. “Good evening, Dr Hart,” I said instead, aiming for a polite tone. “I didn’t realise you’d be on duty at this time.” I couldn’t help noting that her top today was decorated with gambolling puppies.

“My turn for the graveyard shift.” She fixed me with an assessing gaze, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Now, let’s take a look at you…”

As I endured Dr Hart’s examination — answering her questions as best as I could without incriminating myself too badly — I found my thoughts returning to Hess. _Next time,_ I promised myself. _Next time we spar, the bitch is going down._ At the doctor’s instruction, I took as a deep breath as I could, fighting back a wince as my ribs complained at me. _Although maybe I’ll wait a day or two before challenging her again._

“You know, being stoic is decidedly less than helpful when I’m trying to assess how badly you’re hurt,” Dr Hart snapped, sounding thoroughly irritated.

“I’m not being stoic,” I muttered, flushing a little.

“Of course not.” Her scepticism was a palpable force. Were doctors specially trained in the art of weapons-grade sarcasm? I could believe it. “Let’s try this again. Does it hurt when I touch your shoulder?”

She prodded the joint gently with her fingers. I suppressed a twitch. “Yes.”

“And when you shrug, or rotate it?”

I did as ordered. “Yes and yes.”

“Is the pain mild, moderate or severe?”

I thought about it, fighting the urge to insist I was fine, that it was nothing, that I was perfectly functional. That I wouldn’t even be here if I wasn’t under orders. Except that wasn’t quite true, was it? None of it was.

“Moderate?” I hadn’t intended to make it a question.

Dr Hart made a thoughtful noise and scribbled something down on my chart, pushing her glasses up again with the end of her pen before returning it to her pocket.

“I’m going to check your ribs again.”

After what felt like an eternity, Dr Hart finally seemed to finish prodding, scrutinising and interrogating me. Not a moment too soon. How long did it really take to diagnose a few minor bumps and bruises? Although I supposed I couldn’t really fault her for wanting to be thorough. I waited somewhat impatiently for her to finish writing down her observations and tell me her verdict.

“You have a grade one acromioclavicular joint sprain,” she pronounced. “A shoulder sprain, in layman’s terms. The joint will need icing regularly, and you’ll have to wear a sling to reduce stress on it while it heals.”

I stared at her in horror. A sling? How the fuck could I fight if I was supposed to keep one of my arms immobilised? How could I defend myself? I took a breath, held in a wince as my chest flared with pain, and tried to push aside the burgeoning panic. _Maybe it isn’t as bad as it sounds,_ I thought hopefully. _Maybe it will only be for a day or so._

“How long for?” I had to force the words out through a suddenly dry throat.

“One to two weeks.”

“ **Weeks?!** ”

Dr Hart continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “In addition, you have severe bruising on your torso and back. You probably haven’t broken any ribs, but I’m not ruling it out just yet.” She went on to talk about X-rays, and prescriptions, and the importance of rest and not straining myself further, but although I knew it was important, I was having trouble focusing on the details.

Hellfire and damnation! Just how hard had that fucking concrete slab hit me?

“Is it really that bad?” I heard myself ask softly, my words sounding like they were coming from a long distance away. “I didn’t think it was serious.”

“Of course it’s serious!” she exclaimed exasperatedly. “Any injury is potentially serious, but an impact that leaves those kinds of bruises” —she gestured towards me— “could easily lead to complications! Punctured lungs, a damaged spine, internal bleeding; a whole laundry list of injuries that tend to show up on coroners’ reports.” She shook her head. “Stay there and try not to move too much. I’ll be back shortly.”

I couldn’t have answered her if I’d wanted to. All I could do was sit there on the bed, frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the gap in the curtains she’d ducked through.

_But Rune isn’t a killer._ The thought seemed to form slowly, swimming into focus through the yammering static that filled my mind. She hurt people, sure, sometimes badly, but killing? That didn’t seem to be one of her things. Not yet anyway. Then again, accidents did happen, especially if you lost control. And I had been doing my level best to make her lose her fucking temper… Shit. I really could have died tonight. Several times over, even. If that concrete slab had clonked me on the head instead of the shoulder, or if I hadn’t managed to catch myself in time when I dropped off the edge of a building. Or if my armour hadn’t been thick enough when my own brother fucking **shot** me!

Fuck. I still couldn’t quite get my head around the fact that he’d done that. Let alone twice!

I just… I…

_I can’t think about this right now._

I tried to turn my thoughts to a more productive subject: figuring out all the many ways in which I’d fucked up during tonight’s mission. It was a long fucking list. I wasn’t even close to done when Dr Hart returned with Nurse Cooper in tow. And I was still going by the time they’d finished applying ice packs and a sling and all the rest of the medical paraphernalia they apparently thought I needed.

_So much for this being a quick visit,_ I thought glumly.

“Are you comfortable?” Nurse Cooper — _Lynne,_ I corrected myself — asked briskly, and then pulled a face. “Well, as comfortable as you can be, anyway. Do you need another pillow or anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said automatically, mustering up something not entirely unlike a smile.

“Are you sure?”

I almost repeated my demurral, but then hesitated, eyeing my bag. It was resting on the floor next to the bed; not that far away. I could retrieve it myself. But she was asking, and I didn’t want to risk dislodging the ice packs.

“Could you please pass me my bag? And, if you don’t mind, could you also push the desk over?” I supposed it was more of a table, really, presumably intended for meals and such, but it would function just fine as a work surface.

I didn’t miss the way she looked to Dr Hart for permission first. “There you go,” she said, wheeling over the table and setting my bag on top of it.

“Thank you.” I sounded about as awkward as I felt.

“I do hope you’re not planning on staying up half the night working,” Dr Hart said, severely.

“No, of course not,” I assured her. “I just thought I might as well do something useful while I’m sitting here with the ice packs on.” The last thing I wanted to do right now was get lost in my own head. Anyway, I sure as shit needed the extra studying time. I was just glad I’d retrieved my lab book and some schoolwork before coming here.

“If you need anything else, just press the buzzer,” Lynne interjected before Dr Hart could verbalise the doubt written all over her face. “There’s no point in straining yourself.”

“Thank you,” I said, again.

“I’ll be back in a little while to remove the ice packs so you can sleep.” Lynne smiled at me and took her leave. I was expecting Dr Hart to follow her out through the curtains but she stayed where she was, studying me thoughtfully. My skin prickled with unease and I fought not to shift restlessly beneath her pitiless regard, wondering if I’d done something wrong.

“How are you feeling?”

I studied her for a moment, wondering what she wanted me to say. Her expression didn’t give me any clues.

“Fine,” I ventured cautiously. Did her gaze sharpen? Were her lips thinning with annoyance? “Still a little sore, but I think the painkillers are kicking in.”

Shame stung me like a field full of nettles, but I did my level best to push it away. _They’re necessary,_ I told myself. _Dr Hart said so._ Rather scathingly, too. A little too scathingly, if you asked me. I thought my questions had been perfectly reasonable. But I still couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that I was being weak by accepting the drugs.

‘Pain is a valuable lesson,’ Dad was fond of saying. (I deserved to suffer the consequences of my many, many fuck ups. Cheating my way out of it just felt… wrong.)

“We’ll see how you do over the next couple of days,” Dr Hart said. “But if the swelling doesn’t go down, or if there are any other problems, we’ll schedule an X-ray or an MRI just to be on the safe side.”

“I understand,” I said softly. Fuck, I really hoped I didn’t have to have an MRI. Even the thought of having my power fade away over and over and over again was enough to make my heart beat faster. Dr Hart glanced over at the display next to my bed, and I assumed that the electronic snitch I’d been tethered to was cheerfully broadcasting my agitated state to all and sundry. I cast about for something I could say that would head off any awkward questions. “Dr Hart, I’m going to be okay, right? Long-term, I mean. There shouldn’t be any complications once I’ve recovered?”

Once again I felt the weight of her regard press down on me like a pile of bricks.

“I can’t make any guarantees,” she said. “But **if** you follow my instructions and take proper care of yourself, I think you have an excellent chance of making a full recovery.” Her eyes narrowed. “That means not going out and getting into fights when you’re supposed to be resting.”

“I didn’t do that on purpose,” I muttered, feeling about an inch tall. I wondered if that was the real reason why she’d decided to keep me in overnight ‘for observation’.

She apparently decided to ignore my protest. “Like I said earlier, your injuries are serious, and I strongly suspect that they were made worse by the fact you kept doing whatever it was you were doing after you got hurt.” _I guess that means she saw right through my cover story._ I couldn’t honestly say I was surprised. “If you try to push yourself before you’re fully healed, you can injure yourself further. And then you might never heal properly, even with corrective surgery.”

Nick had said something similar. It had given me pause for thought, even through my instinctive anger. Coming from a doctor though, somehow the sentiment had more weight. And it got me thinking. Even with the painkillers I was sore as fuck right now. But did I really feel any worse than I did after a tough training session, or after I’d earned Dad’s wrath? I mean, my back ached like one massive bruise, and it still felt as though there was a weight pressing on my chest. Breathing sent spikes of pain shooting through my whole body, as did even the slightest movement of my damaged shoulder. None of that was particularly unusual, though, not for me. The way I felt right now, Dad would probably have allowed me some recovery time, but not weeks. And he definitely would have expected me to make up for the lost time afterwards, which would’ve meant pushing myself even harder.

But if Dr Hart was right about how damaged I was right now, and if my condition wasn’t really any more serious than it had been all those other times…

_Maybe that’s why I ended up with goddamned micro fractures. And why my wrist always ached in cold weather. And why, no matter how many cold showers I took, or how many ice packs I applied, I used to hurt all the fucking time._

The sudden flare of rage caught me off-guard, searing me from the inside and stealing the limited breath from my lungs. It was a wonder my skin didn’t crack and peel from the heat of it, that I wasn’t incandescent with the force and fire of my fury.

_Goddammit Dad! I’m not like you. I’m not a fucking brute. Didn’t you realise what you were doing to me? And to Lance? Did you even fucking care?_

‘You’d better not be whining, girl. You know how I feel about whining.’

I tensed in anticipation of a blow, stifling a gasp as my shoulder flared with pain.

“Talos? Are you alright?”

_I’m in the PRT infirmary,_ I reminded myself, focusing on the pain in my shoulder, on the feel of the sheets _(cotton and polyester)_ beneath my fingers. _Dad isn’t here._

“Fine,” I mumbled, after a tense, awkward, too-long pause. My cheeks burned with mingled embarrassment and lingering anger. What the fuck was wrong with me, spacing out like that? And twice in one day? Fuck. “Just tired, I guess. It’s been a long day.”

It wasn’t a lie. It really had been a fucking long day. And I hadn’t exactly been sleeping well lately.

“Have you been having trouble sleeping?”

Hellfire and damnation! Was she a fucking mind reader?

“No,” I started to say, only for my body to betray me with a jaw-cracking yawn. Mortified, I tried to cover it with my hand.

Dr Hart pushed her glasses up her nose and fixed me with a thoroughly sceptical look. “Is that your final answer?”

“I’ve… been having a little trouble sleeping the night through,” I grudgingly admitted. “I wake up sometimes, and it can take me a while to drop off again afterwards.”

_Too many fucking nightmares._

She pulled out her pen and made a note. I just about managed not to grit my teeth. “Do you have that problem often?”

“Not really.” She didn’t reply, nor did she put the pen away. Instead, she just stood there, looking at me with that same doubting expression. “It’s happened sporadically before, but not all the time.” Still, she held her pen poised above the chart, the silence thickening with expectation as she continued to look at me. “It’s been happening on and off since I moved into the Wards HQ,” I found myself saying.

_Fuckdammit!_

“I see.” Her pen flew over the paper for a few moments, and then she put it back in her pocket, setting the chart down on the table next to my bag. To my surprise, she sat down on end of the bed.

“There’s nothing about sleeping problems in your medical file,” she chided me, and even though she wasn’t in my chain of command — even though it didn’t make sense to think that she’d have me disciplined, especially now — I flinched inside anyway. “Remember what I said about being stoic?”

“I wasn’t being, particularly.” Despite my best efforts, my words sounded defensive. “It just didn’t seem important. And, like I said, it’s happened before. It’s not really a new thing.”

“Hmm.” It was a noncommittal sound, giving no clue as to what she was thinking right now. “If it’s a persistent problem, I could prescribe something that will help you sleep the night through, but I’d prefer not to do that unless absolutely necessary.”

“I don’t want sleeping tablets,” I said swiftly, ice trailing down my spine at the thought of being trapped in one of those fucking nightmares. Or, worse, of not being able to wake up if I had to.

“Well, like I said, I’d rather not go right to medication if it can be dealt with another way. We have some pamphlets somewhere with advice for dealing with insomnia. I’ll ask Lynne to dig one out for you.” Her lips quirked in a wry smile, surprising me. “It’s not an uncommon complaint around these parts.”

“I see.” It made sense, I guessed. Some of the people here must have seen some serious shit. With a start, I belatedly remembered my manners. “Thank you.”

“I hope it helps.” Her smile faded again as she looked at me. “Have you talked to a counsellor about your sleeping problems?”

I tried to stop myself tensing, keeping my expression as neutral as I could. “It… never came up. There wasn’t a lot of time.” It was only when the words were out of my mouth that I realised I could have just lied and said yes. _I guess I really must be tired._

“Hmm,” she said, again. “Well, if things don’t improve, I suggest you make sure to bring it up. They might be able to help.” I fucking doubted it, but I nodded and made what she’d hopefully take for an agreeing sort of sound. That seemed like the end of the conversation to me, but she remained where she was, studying me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. _I guess she’s got something else to say._ “Alright,” she said after a few moments, proving me right. “Talos.” She paused briefly, leaning forward and pushing her glasses back up on her nose when they inevitably slipped down. (I wondered why she didn’t just get them fixed.) “Astrid,” she said, more quietly. “I know you weren’t just ‘practising manoeuvrability techniques’ today.”

My breath caught in my throat, making me cough, spikes of pain stabbing through my chest and shoulder before I got it under control.

“I…” I managed to choke out. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Dr Hart said, and then grimaced. “Well, no. It’s not okay. It’s pretty damn far from okay. But now I’m getting side-tracked.” She sighed. When she next spoke, her tone was soft, lacking the sharp edges I’d come to expect from her. “I’m guessing you’re used to avoiding doctors.” This felt like a trap. I didn’t have a fucking clue what she wanted me to say right now, so I kept my mouth shut. “And it’s not uncommon for Wards not to seek medical attention when they get injured doing something they probably shouldn’t have been doing in the first place.”

What the fuck did she want from me? Was she hoping I’d beg her not to turn me in? Was this some kind of a power trip for her? Was it— No. No, it didn’t really feel like that was what was going on. She seemed… worried? Worried. And kind of… resigned, maybe.

“I don’t understand, Dr Hart.” _Christ, could I sound any more pathetic?_

“Then I’ll try to make it clearer. I’m not your enemy. I’m not interested in getting you in trouble. None of the medical staff are. Our job is to put you back together again when you end up in harm’s way and to do our level best to make sure you don’t end up hurting yourself any further. But we can’t do that if you don’t come to us. Or if you don’t do what we tell you.”

It would have been easier if she’d been sarcastic, or even angry. If she’d shouted. (If she’d hit me.) I knew how to handle anger. But I had absolutely no fucking clue what to do with this weirdly gentle, matter-of-fact concern.

“I did come to you,” I said, hating the way my voice quavered uncertainly. “And I believed you when you said this was serious. I’m not going to damage myself further if I can help it. I don’t—”

“Injure.”

Caught off guard, I blinked at her for a moment before I could claw back something like equilibrium.

“What?”

“The word you’re looking for is injure, not damage.”

“What’s the difference?” The question slipped out before I could think better of it, confusion spreading through me like ink through water.

Dr Hart opened her mouth as if to answer, but then closed it again, shaking her head. “That is not a conversation I am qualified to have with you,” she murmured, mystifyingly. “But I strongly suggest you ask your counsellor that question.”

That, at least, I had an answer for.

“I see.”

It was an acknowledgement, not an agreement. That meant it wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t my fault if she took it as a promise.

Movement drew my attention; Dr Hart was getting to her feet. She pushed her glasses up her nose again and picked up my chart, holding it in one hand as she stood.

“I should leave you to get some rest. I’ll ask Lynne to dig out one of those insomnia pamphlets for you. Just think about what I said, okay? And if you need anything, or if you start to feel any kind of discomfort, just use the buzzer and either Lynne or I will come and check on you.” She turned away. “Goodnight, Talos.”

“Dr Hart?” I called softly. A mess of restless, uneasy feelings were swirling around inside of me, driving me to speak even though I already half-regretted opening my mouth. Maybe even more than half, but it was too late now.

Dr Hart paused with one hand gripping the curtain around the bed. She turned to face me, her expression curious. “Yes?”

“Is it really normal not to hurt at all when you’re not actually damaged?” I belatedly remembered what she’d said. “Injured, I mean.”

Her expression twisted oddly, but her voice was almost brusque. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

Panacea had said that, but she wasn’t a doctor, not really. And, one way or another, that bitch seemed determined to think of me a fucking victim. Dr Hart didn’t have any reason to lie to me, though. Not one that I could think of, anyway. And she should know what she was talking about. Which meant… Which meant she was probably right.

_So it really wasn’t normal for my wrist to ache, or my shoulder to click, or my knee to twinge if I bent it at the wrong angle._ All those niggling little annoyances that were just a normal part of my everyday life — that I’d assumed were part of everybody’s lives — were actually signs that there was something wrong with me. _Dad really did make me weaker._

I’d had that thought before, off and on, since Panacea had fixed me. But on those other occasions I’d flinched away from it, shoving it aside and trying to turn my mind to other, less uncomfortable things. Now, though, I forced myself to turn the idea over and over, considering it as dispassionately as I could.

_Dad hit me too hard._ For all his talk of control, he clearly didn’t have as much of it as he thought he did, and he… _He fucked up._ And he’d compounded his fuck ups by not giving me enough time to recover. By pushing me too hard, too soon. So of course I hadn’t healed right. _Dad didn’t just damage me, he fucking broke me. And then he put me back together wrong._

The world seemed to tilt oddly around me. My face felt hot, the skin tight like something was trying to force its way out of me. There was a pressure on my chest that had nothing to do with being shot.

“Was that all you wanted to ask?”

The question pulled me out of my chaotically spiralling thoughts. I opened my mouth to say ‘yes’, but what came out instead was, “I know you’re not the enemy.” There was a lump in my throat. I swallowed as discreetly as I could, trying to clear it. Even that small motion made my chest hurt. “Like you said, I’m not used to seeing doctors.” The legit ones wouldn’t understand, Dad had said. And the shadier ones were an infosec risk. “I’m used to handling things myself.” My nostrils were suddenly filled with a heavy metallic scent. I took a breath to clear it away. “But I’m trying to be better.” Even if I had been tempted not to come here tonight. “I really don’t want to fuck myself up any further.”

I was so damn tired of hurting all the time. Especially now I finally knew what it felt like not to be in pain. Did that make me weak?

‘You’re getting soft, girl.’

_Fuck you, Dad._

“I’m glad to hear that.” Dr Hart smiled then, but with an odd look still in her eyes. Or maybe I was just seeing things. Who the fuck knew? “Now try to get some rest. Dr Patel will check on you in the morning, and we’ll take it from there.” On that note, she nodded at me and stepped through the curtains, closing them again behind her.

I was left alone with my thoughts.

I had a fuck of a lot of thoughts.

* * * * *

I glanced up at the clock on the wall of my room. It was ten minutes later than the last time I’d checked. I pulled out my phone, glaring at it when it failed to yield any messages or missed calls. Not that missing a call from a superior would have been a good thing, but at least it would have been something. At least then I wouldn’t be stuck in this endless, crawling limbo.

Assault had said we’d talk ‘soon’. Well, when the fuck was soon? How long was he going to leave me hanging? Was this a punishment? Did he want me to feel like I had the sword of Damocles over my head? Did he want anticipation to make my nerves jangle like piano wire? Dread to make me feel like my skin was just about ready to crawl right off my bones? Well it was fucking working!

I scowled down at my homework, gluing my gaze to the math problem I was supposed to be solving. My shoulder complained at me as I leaned forward. My first instinct was to simply ignore the pain, but then I remembered that I couldn’t trust my instincts. Not with this. So instead I grabbed the small padded armrest thing Lynne had given me and made space for it on my desk. Using the stupid thing helped a little. I tried not to resent it. It wasn’t the little polyurethane shape’s fault my shoulder was currently fucked. I picked up my pen, cursed the fact that I was out of practice writing left-handed, and set about doing my homework.

I lasted all of five minutes before I got distracted again.

Fuck. I really wished I could go to the gym and just hit something until the stupid fucking feelings went away. Even better if I could hit some **one**. But I couldn’t. Doctor’s orders. I really fucking hoped it wouldn’t be too long until I was cleared for exercise again. If I was this wound up after missing one workout, I was loath to think how twitchy I would be after a day or two.

I checked my phone again. Still nothing. Not even a message from Hess, who’d said she wanted to talk to me. Well, she’d said we were going to talk. Whatever. She’d said ‘later’, whenever the fuck that was. Not just yet, apparently. I wondered what she was doing now. Having a lie in? Training? Spending time with family? With friends? That redheaded girl she hung around with at school? (Not that I gave a shit what she did with her weekend. I was just curious.)

I shoved my phone back in my pocket and tried to force myself to calm the fuck down by willpower alone. It didn’t help, but I had work to do.

I really couldn’t afford to fuck this up.

Wonder of wonders, I actually managed to concentrate long enough to get most of the way through the math assignment. But then a yawn stretched my jaw and I realised all over again just how fucking exhausted I was.

I hadn’t had the most restful night’s sleep. Finding a comfortable position on the bed had pretty much been a non-starter even with the painkillers, and I’d woken myself up more than once by rolling onto a sore spot. Even when I actually did manage to drift off, my dreams had been restless and unpleasant. Worse, I’d apparently been making enough noise that Lynne had decided to check up on me. A shiver went down my spine as I remembered how close I’d come to decking her. If she’d been standing any closer when I jerked awake; nerves jangling with adrenaline and my power practically screaming at me to use it…

_She wasn’t, though,_ I tried to reassure myself. _And I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t even touch her._ I gave a silent prayer of thanks that she had enough common sense to keep her distance from an agitated cape. That was undoubtedly something the PRT taught its employees, but I was relieved beyond measure that she’d actually taken the lesson to heart. Unfortunately, remembering that near-disaster made me recall that I’d taken a walk down memory lane in the middle of a fucking fight; that I’d come back myself to find my power had seemingly acted of its own accord.

(Had I…? Could I have…?)

My breath caught in my throat, my heart juddering in my chest as needles of ice pricked my skin. When my vision started to darken around the edges I managed to scrape up enough willpower to give a wordless command. Metal slithered and then constricted, pressing against my bruises. I twitched a little despite myself and had to stifle a curse as my shoulder started throbbing, but it had worked as intended, snapping me out of my stupid little almost-freakout. Dr Hart would undoubtedly not have approved of the tactic, but better a moment of minor discomfort than a however-the-fuck-long major breakdown. Besides, I was careful not to damage myself.

_Control,_ I reminded myself sternly, returning my metal to its proper place.

I couldn’t think about whatever I may or may not have done during that little lacuna last night. Not right now. I just… I couldn’t. Anyway, I had things to do and I really couldn’t afford any more fucking distractions. So after checking my phone again — still nothing — I did my level best to get back to work.

_I just wish Assault would fucking get on with it._

When the elevator started moving a short time later, I thought for one glorious moment that my prayers had been answered; that he’d decided to skip the courtesy of a message and just show up at the Wards HQ. But then I registered the absence of the ‘mask up’ alarm, and my heart sank again. A beat later, another realisation struck me like a fist to the face: if the new arrival was a Ward, then it could be Carlos. (He could have finally decided it was time to mete out the punishment I deserved.)

My head snapped round to face the door, my heart suddenly trying to hammer its way out of my chest. The security door at the entrance to the Wards HQ opened and then closed again. My skin prickled as if I’d been tased. I strained my ears, listening for footsteps, but I heard nothing. That wasn’t so unusual. Given the distance involved, I likely wouldn’t hear whoever it was until they approached the living quarters. If it was Carlos, he could simply fly through the HQ. If he was coming to have a talk with me, my only warning might well be an ominous rapping at my chamber door.

Assuming he didn’t just walk right in.

_No,_ I told myself. _That’s ridiculous._ My door was locked, and he wasn’t just going to break it down. (Not that a flimsy little lock would stop him if he was pissed off enough with me to do just that. It certainly hadn’t ever stopped Dad.) I had to resist the sudden, stupid urge to just seal the goddamn door shut.

The seconds ticked by. My chest started aching — well, aching even more — and I realised I was holding my breath. I made myself stop. And then I had to stop myself from hyperventilating. My neck and shoulder twinged, reminding me that my body was twisted around at an awkward angle. I was frozen in place, though, my pen still clutched tightly in my hand. Stupid as it was — pointless as it was — I couldn’t make myself look away from the door.

Just enough time passed for me to start thinking that whoever it was had no plans to head this way, but then I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside. They were getting closer. Again, I had to force myself not to hyperventilate. Again, I had to resist the urge to seal my door against intruders. Again, I told myself that I was being ridiculous. It didn’t help. None of it helped. And then I almost jumped out of my skin when whoever was out there knocked at my door.

_Get a grip, idiot,_ I told myself sternly, and opened my mouth to ask who it was. Not a sound came out.

“Astrid?” Oh, thank fuck. It wasn’t Carlos. “It’s Chris.” This time it was an overwhelming wave of relief that stilled my tongue, and when the silence stretched awkwardly he spoke again, his initial cheer now replaced by uncertainty. “Are you there?”

“Just a minute,” I called out, finally managing to break free of my stupid paralysis. I got carefully to my feet, crossing the room to unlock and open my door. When it revealed no one but a smiling Chris, I felt another pulse of relief. “Good morning,” I said. Fuck, I couldn’t believe it was still morning, if only just. It felt like a fucking lifetime. I offered him a tentative smile. “Did you need something?”

From the way his expression shifted, I could see the exact moment he noticed my sling.

“What happened? Are you okay? No, that’s a stupid question, you’re obviously not okay. Do you need any help? Please don’t hesitate to ask. I mean it, anything you need. Er, within reason, I mean. Obviously. Which you already knew because we had that conversation just under a week ago.” He paused for a moment. Maybe he needed to breathe. “Astrid, what happened to your arm?”

For one brief, stupid moment I was tempted to tell him everything, but then reason reasserted itself. If Assault was willing to deal with the matter discreetly, there was no sense in doing anything that could compromise that. Besides, I didn’t want to put Chris in a potentially awkward position.

“I fell,” I said shortly. “Sprained my shoulder. The sling is just to reduce stress on the joint while it heals.”

Chris’ face went through a complicated series of expressions, as if he was considering and discarding a number of possible responses before eventually settling on, “What did you fall from? And how?”

“A wall. I was practising manoeuvrability techniques.” I attempted a rueful smile, lightening my tone to add, “Guess I need to keep practising.”

He smiled back at me, so I guessed my feeble attempt at humour hadn’t been entirely off the mark. “I collected my own share of bumps and bruises when I was figuring out my hoverboard,” he confided. “Just take it slow and careful and you’ll get the hang of it.” His smile faded a little. “When you’ve recovered, I mean.”

I couldn’t help rolling my eyes, even though I supposed the admonition wasn’t exactly groundless. “Don’t worry, I was planning on waiting until my shoulder’s healed before trying it again. I don’t want another lecture from Dr Hart.” And I really didn’t want to fuck my shoulder up permanently. Again.

“Good.” He sounded relieved.

I waited a moment, prompting him when he didn’t say anything further. “So, did you need something? I’m afraid we’ll have to put the combat training on hold for a week or two.” I gestured to the sling. Like my meaning wasn’t utterly fucking obvious. Christ, why did I suck so much at talking to people?

“Oh! No, I just stopped by to say hello. And to see if you wanted me to put on another pot of coffee. I’ve just finished off the last one.” He grinned suddenly. “That’s how I figured you were around, actually. No one else makes it that strong.” Unease shivered through me as I realised that if Chris had figured that out, others likely had also. I tried to push the disquiet away, telling myself that it wasn’t sloppy to leave signs like that in what was effectively my home. “Astrid?”

“Sorry, I was just…” The rest of my sentence trailed off into a yawn, and my face flushed with embarrassment. “Yeah, I guess more coffee might be good. I can make it, though, don’t worry. You probably have stuff to do.” Not that I didn’t, but maybe moving around a bit would help break my thoughts out of their endless, pointless spiralling. Maybe then I could actually fucking concentrate for more than minutes at a time.

“Your arm’s in a sling,” Chris pointed out unnecessarily, and much more firmly than I would’ve expected. “Anyway, you made the last pot and I’m the one who finished it off, so it’s only polite.” His tone softened. “You don’t have to be stubborn about this.”

“I’m not being stubborn,” I started to snap, but I made myself stop and take a breath. “Thank you, Chris. That would be great.” I hesitated, and then added, “Do you mind if I come with you? That way I can get a refill while it’s nice and fresh.” And, if I was honest with myself, the thought of company right now wasn’t actually an unpleasant one.

“Of course I don’t mind.”

He was practically beaming now, and I had to look away from the open honesty of his smile, using the excuse of retrieving my notebook and empty mug.

“Just a second.” I paused just outside my room, absently holding out my mug, notebook and pen for my metal to take while I locked my bedroom door. That task done, I secured my grip on my things and returned the metal to quiescence. “Okay, I’m ready now.” Chris was looking at me oddly. I frowned. “What?”

“You know, you could have just asked me to hold your stuff,” he said as we made our way toward the kitchen.

“I guess I didn’t think about about it.”

“And no one’s going to poke around in your room. I don’t think anyone else is even here.”

I shrugged, immediately regretting the movement. “Just habit, I guess.”

As this was the first room of mine that had ever had a lock my assertion wasn’t even remotely true, but it wasn’t like he knew any better. Although his reaction meant it was probably a good thing I hadn’t taken the time to set up any of the little precautions that would tell me if anyone did go in there and mess with my stuff. Not that it was really necessary. As long as I was here, the only person who’d be able to get in there without me knowing about it was Shadow Stalker, and she wasn’t around. I found that thought vaguely comforting. (I made another mental note to work on figuring out countermeasures against Hess’ power.)

Chris gave me a sidelong glance, but forbore to comment again on my totally reasonable caution.

When we reached the kitchen, I set my things down on the work surface so I could check my phone. Still nothing. Damnit. Also, I had the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what that might be. I worried at it like a hangnail as I rinsed my mug.

“Did you hurt your shoulder this morning?” Chris asked, as he fiddled with the coffee machine.

I sat at the table, idly wishing I’d thought to bring the stupid little armrest with me. I improvised a support from my metal, but it wasn’t quite the same.

“Yesterday. The infirmary kept me in overnight for observation.”

“I bet you hated that,” he murmured, glancing over at me. I scowled before I could think better of it. “Uh, no offence,” he added quickly.

“None taken.” I scraped up a rueful grin. “Anyway, you’re not wrong. I really would’ve preferred to be in my own bed last night.” Behind a locked door, where no one would’ve heard me crying out in my sleep like a fucking pathetic child. And where there would have been no risk of me hurting anyone. I sighed softly. “I guess I’m just predictable.” The words emerged flatter than the light tone I’d intended.

“I would never call you predictable,” Chris said quickly.

He seemed sincere, for all that he was flat out wrong. Apparently I was fucking predictable to Lance. My asshole brother had figured out how to track me down, after all. And he’d known exactly how to make me give up Rune.

_Goddamnit, Lance. What the fuck am I going to do about you?_ I’d known that we were on opposite sides, and that there was a chance we were going to go up against each other directly at some point. I just… _Hellfire and damnation, I hadn’t expected it to be so soon!_ And I sure as shit hadn’t expected him to be so ruthless about it, even though I really should have done. _He’s killed before,_ I reminded myself. _He’ll do it again if he has to._ Whereas I… _I won’t kill. I won’t._ It was a line I refused to cross.

(I prayed to God I hadn’t crossed it by accident last night.)

“…to Astrid. Come in, Astrid.”

I twitched a little as I realised that Chris was speaking to me; had been speaking to me for who the fuck knew how long. And I’d just been spacing out. Again.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” I blurted out, my face on fire. “Sorry for zoning out on you. I’m just…” _Pathetic. A fuck up. Unconscionably rude._ “Like I said, I’m tired.”

“Didn’t sleep well?”

There was something about the way he said that, something that made my hackles stand right up on end. Something knowing. Something pitying, maybe. Had Dennis told him about my stupid fucking nightmares? The question hovered there on the tip of my tongue, spiky and sour, but I made myself swallow it back down. I was honestly happier not knowing the answer.

“No,” I admitted. And, before he could say anything else, I cast about for a change of subject. “So, how come you’re here so early? Your patrol doesn’t start for ages yet. Bad luck on drawing a Saturday shift, by the way.”

I knew the Friday and Saturday shifts were by far the least popular with the other Wards. It wasn’t going to make much difference to me, but then I didn’t exactly have a social life. (Unless Victoria decided to drag me out shopping again, but that wasn’t at all likely. Honestly, that was probably for the best.)

“Eh, it’s not that bad,” he said, shrugging. “Anyway, I volunteered for it.”

“You did?”

“I’ve got plans next Saturday, so I thought I’d better put in my dues this week.”

“I see.” My curiosity got the better of me. “What kind of plans?”

“Hanging out with some friends,” he said cheerfully. “A bunch of us are going to see the new Stranger Danger movie. Have you heard of it?”

When I shook my head, he set about enthusiastically correcting my ignorance. Some kind of spy thriller, set in an alternate past where Scion never stopped the Cold War. I had to admit I wasn’t taking in every detail. I was too busy grappling with a sudden and inexplicable rush of some acrid, jagged-edged feeling. It took me a moment to recognise it because it made absolutely no fucking sense. What possible reason could I have to be jealous? I didn’t care about the movie. I hadn’t even seen the previous ones in the series, let alone read the comics they were based on. What the fuck was wrong with me?

“Sounds cool,” I said, since he seemed to be expecting a response. That seemed to be the right one, because he broke out into a huge grin.

“It is,” he said. “They are.” He turned away, apparently to poke unnecessarily at the coffee machine, which was happily burbling away to itself. “You know, I’ve actually got the first two films, if you want to watch them sometime.” He shifted restlessly from foot to foot. “Maybe… I mean, I know you’re busy, and don’t feel you have to or anything, but if you want to, then maybe… maybe we could watch them together?” He seemed a little red in the face. Or maybe that was just my imagination.

_I don’t have time to watch movies,_ I told myself. _Anyway, it sounds dumb._ But Chris looked so hopeful. And I had enjoyed the last dumb action movie he and Dennis persuaded me to watch. _I suppose I can always do some work while it’s on in the background…_

“Sure,” I said, simultaneously both regretting it and, weirdly, not. “Sounds good.”

“Awesome!” His smile practically lit up the room. (Not quite like Victoria’s, I couldn’t help noting, but then he didn’t have her aura.) “It’ll be fun, you’ll see.” I tried not to wince. From the way his forehead creased into a frown, I was less than successful. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not used to taking time out just to have fun.” And now he just looked sad. I cast about for something else to say. “Anyway, you never did say why you’re here so early. Are you heading for the workshop?”

“Oh! Yeah.” His face lit up again, but it was different to before; manic excitement rather than beatific happiness. His gaze was distant, like he was seeing something other than the room around us. “I’ve got some ideas I want to noodle through. I think they could be really neat.” He started to talk about some of those ideas, and I settled in for what looked like it was winding up to become a bout of full-fledged tinker babble, only for him to sputter out again when he’d barely gotten started. The light and life seemed to drain right out of him as he sighed heavily, slumping to lean back against the countertop. “And I need to make the most of my time today, because I’m not allowed to come in tomorrow.”

I frowned. “Not allowed? What do you mean, you’re not a—” The realisation hit me like a smack in the the face, my breath catching in my throat as I finally figured out what had been niggling at me all this time. “Your parents?”

He sighed again, slumping even further. “Yeah. I’m kind of, sort of, not quite grounded exactly, but my time is a bit restricted at the moment.” He shook his head glumly. “I’m just glad I’m still allowed to go to the movies next week. Although it is conditional on…” He trailed off, looking at me with a puzzled expression. “Astrid? Are you okay?”

I didn’t even remember getting to my feet, but I was suddenly standing in front of him and far too close, scrutinising what I could see of his skin as I ran through a triage checklist in my mind.

“Are you alright?” I asked him, barely stopping myself from frogmarching him to a chair so I could physically examine him for damage. “Are you…” The words stuck in my suddenly dry throat. Had he been limping? Favouring one side or the other? Trying not to flex one of his wrists? (Had his smile been dimmer than usual? Had he flinched at my approach?) “Are you hurt?”

“What? No. Of course I’m not hurt. The last time I sparred was with you, and you were a lot better about pulling your blows than the first time. Um, not that you ever hurt me, not really. That wasn’t a complaint, not at all. But why did you ask me that? What made you think I might have been injured?”

“I just remembered that you were in trouble with your parents.” It almost felt like someone else was speaking; like the words were coming from very far away. “I’d forgotten that they were going to have a… a talk with you last night.” My throat felt as dry as dust. “I thought they might have disciplined you.”

Chris’ expression shifted through puzzlement to shocked realisation, to something that looked an awful lot like anger. “You thought they’d hit me?” he practically shouted. “What the hell, Astrid? That’s fucked up!”

“You don’t have to yell in my face,” I snapped back, unsettled his display of temper. “I’m not deaf!” My ears were still ringing from the gunshots, off and on, but that was neither here nor there.

He looked taken aback, and then kind of… ashamed? And then sorrow seemed to settle over him like a shroud. This time, he spoke so softly I had to strain my ears to make out his words. “You thought they’d hit me.”

_No shit, Sherlock,_ I thought, biting back as much of my irritation as I could to ask, “Did they?”

“No, Astrid. They didn’t hit me.” He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh. His gaze was locked on mine, his next words slow and oddly heavy, like he was stating something momentous. “They **don’t** hit me.”

“Not ever?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Not ever.”

“Not even when you fuck up?”

“Not even then.”

Well, now I felt like an utter fucking fool. I’d already known his parents were soft on him. Every single one of my conversations with him had made that abundantly clear. I’d known that, I had, but I’d just… Fuck, I’d just panicked; concern for my friend overwhelming rational thought.

“Sorry,” I muttered, my face aflame with mortification. A whole mess of stupid fucking feelings slithered queasily around inside me, but I didn’t have the first clue how to go about figuring what they were. Or if I even wanted to. “Of course they don’t. Just… Just forget I said anything, okay? I’m an idiot.”

I felt as if I’d actually burst into flames if I faced that all-too-knowing gaze of his a moment longer, so I turned away, searching for an excuse to just grab my things and retreat to the safety of my room.

“No!” Chris blurted out suddenly, stopping in me in my tracks. And then I felt a hand on my arm; smacked it aside instinctively, already whirling to follow up with an attack of my own, but this wasn’t an acceptable target, this was **Chris** , and I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t hurt him. So I juddered to a halt mid-motion, trying to tell myself that I wasn’t under attack. “I’m sorry!” he gasped out, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “I forgot. I’m really sorry, Astrid.”

“Don’t touch me,” I ground out. My skin felt too tight, like it was about to split apart with the strain of keeping all those fucking feelings trapped inside. “I don’t like to be touched. You fucking know that.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.” He backed away from me, keeping his movements slow and his hands where I could see them. That was about the only thing that stopped me from hitting him.

I backed away myself, ordering my metal to stand down. It was much, much harder than it should have been.

“Just because I hugged you once, that doesn’t give you license to put your hands on me whenever you fucking feel like it.”

I barely even recognised my own voice. My nerves were jangling like piano wire, my heart pumping like a piston. I was either freezing where I stood or being seared from the inside out, and for the life of me, I couldn’t tell which one it was. Maybe it was both at once.

“I don’t think that. I really don’t. I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I just didn’t think, I swear.” There was a gap where I might have said something if I could’ve thought of something to say; if my throat wasn’t choked with grit and glass. Chris sagged a little, and I wanted more than anything to tear my gaze away from the raw earnestness in his eyes. He couldn’t have seemed any more vulnerable right now if he’d been standing there stark naked. “Please believe me.” The words sounded like a prayer.

“I do.” It hurt to say that, even though it was true. Maybe it was because it was true. This — trusting someone; trusting the purity of their intentions enough to give them the benefit of the doubt — was uncharted territory for me. I barely even knew him!

“Good, great, awesome. And I- I’ll try to be better about remembering to keep my distance. I mean it.”

My heart was still racing, my body practically vibrating in place, but the tidal wave of emotion had receded a little, allowing me to claw back some of the tattered rags of my composure. Unfortunately, it also allowed the shame and self-recrimination to start seeping in around the edges.

“Okay.” I belatedly realised that my shoulder was throbbing, and the weight was back on my chest again, pressing down on my lungs so that I struggled to take a full breath. Or maybe it was just in my head. “Okay,” I said, again, but I knew that wasn’t what I needed to say. Despite the temptation to make some excuse and exit the kitchen, I forced myself to stand my ground and meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, Chris. I overreacted. I guess I’m a little on edge at the moment.”

_Understatement of the fucking century._

He seemed to relax a little. “That’s okay. You don’t need to apologise. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” I muttered, trying not to scowl. My shoulder was still complaining at me so I cursed silently and set about getting my arm back in the sling without jostling it too much. I didn’t even remember taking it out; everything had just happened so quickly. _Fuck, did I actually hit Chris?_ I honestly wasn’t sure. “Did I hurt you?”

“Uh, no. No, you didn’t. You barely even touched me.”

_So I did hit him. Hellfire and damnation!_

“I’m sorry,” I said again, trying not to grimace at how lost and helpless I sounded.

I adjusted the sling as best as I could with my metal and my one good hand. I really hoped I hadn’t set my healing back too much with that stupid little blip. _Should I go back to the infirmary to make sure?_

“It’s okay.” He sounded like he meant that. He even managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere. “I’m okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I do everything wrong.” The words burst out of me like shrapnel from a bomb. The world felt off-kilter, or maybe it was just me.

“What? No, you—”

“I’m such a fuck up.” Not wanting to trust my sense of balance, I reached out for the nearest chair, my metal pulling it closer when my reach proved insufficient.

“Astrid, you’re—”

“I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how any of this works. I don’t know how any of **you** work. And every time I open my mouth I end up sticking both feet in it.”

“No, that’s not—”

“I made Dean regret bringing me in in the first fucking place. And… and I…” My voice cracked, ice filling my veins and trailing down the full length of my spine. I couldn’t bring myself to say the name. “I pissed off the team leader so much he can barely even look at me. I just…” I shook my head helplessly, my eyes burning and my face aching like it was being clamped in a vice. I sank down onto the chair, letting my head droop down so I couldn’t see the disgust I was sure was in Chris’ eyes. His presence was just about the only thing that stopped me from burying my head in my hands and screaming in frustration at myself for my stupidity and failure. “I just keep fucking up.”

“No, Astrid.” I heard Chris moving around and tensed despite myself, but all he did was pull over another chair and sit down. I was relieved that he kept his distance, appreciating the courtesy. (I hated myself for the way he was probably afraid to get too close to the psycho bitch.) “You put yourself down all the time, and I really wish you wouldn’t. You’re not a fuck up. It’s not your fault you’re out of your element. Your whole world’s been turned upside down. It takes a lot of time to adjust to something like that.”

“That’s not an excuse. There is no excuse for failure.” It didn’t matter what he or Ms Grant or anyone said, I knew that was true. I knew it down to my bones. “And failure is always punished.”

I hadn’t meant to say that, but I was just too exhausted to care right now. It wasn’t just the physical tiredness that followed a bad night’s sleep — or even several bad nights’ sleep in a row — this was deeper than that. If I was feeling poetic, I might have said it was an exhaustion of the soul.

Chris drew in a deep breath, as if to speak, but then he let it out again in a sigh. I raised my gaze a little — still too much of a coward to look him in the eyes — and I noticed that his hands were clenched into fists and braced against his knees. Was he angry? Why?

_How did I fuck up this time?_

“Did your dad tell you that?”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause before he spoke again. It distantly occurred to me that the coffee must have surely been ready by now, but I just didn’t have the energy to get up and pour myself a cup. I wasn’t sure I even wanted it right now. My stomach was roiling like a storm-tossed sea, nausea clawing its way up my gullet.

“Do you remember when I said that I don’t think it’s right to hurt someone for making a mistake?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I learned that from my parents. If I do something wrong, they talk to me about it. And if they do need to p—” His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath, and then another one. I watched his hands tighten and then relax, his fingers uncurling to splay out over his knees. “If they do need to punish me,” he continued, then they ground me, or dock my allowance, or limit my tinkering time, or whatever. They don’t hit me.”

“I know. You said.” Why was he repeating himself? We’d already established that his parents didn’t know the first fucking thing about proper discipline. I despised them for it even as a part of me was relieved beyond measure that Chris would never have to worry about goddamned micro fractures.

“The thing is, Astrid…” He used my name a lot. More than anyone else did. I wondered if it meant anything. “That’s normal. Most parents do things like that. Well, they’d restrict TV or computer time instead of tinkering time, I guess, but it’s the same principle. And now I’m rambling, sorry.” His hands flexed, the fingers of his right hand drumming restlessly on his knee for a few moments before they stilled again. “My point is that most parents don’t hit their kids.”

“You’re wrong.” My voice was hoarse, the words almost listless, but a spark kindled inside me, giving me the strength to straighten my spine and lift my head.

“I’m not,” he insisted.

That spark caught and spread like burning embers in dry grass. I was distantly aware of my hands clenching into fists. I kept my metal in check, but there was steel in my voice when I growled, “You **are**. Most people just don’t flap their gums about it, that’s all.” Especially not to people like him. And yet here I was, breaking the rules to share my private shame over and over again.

“No, that really isn’t it. Please, trust me on this. I’m telling the truth.”

He was so earnest, so open. So fucking wrong. But I tried to tell myself it wasn’t his fault he was naive. After all, his parents had done that to him.

“I don’t think you’re lying.” I tried to soften my tone. It didn’t quite work. “But I know you’re mistaken.”

“Can you trust me? Please? What your dad did to you, the way he punished you… That was wrong.” His jaw tightened, something almost flint-like in his gaze. It made him look like a stranger. “It was fucking wrong. Parents shouldn’t hit their children.”

“They should if their kids deserve it!” The words hurled themselves out of my throat; far too loud, far too sharp. My chest was heaving, the blaze within me like a raging wildfire consuming everything it touched. “Children have to learn, and pain is the best teacher. And if I fuck up, I deserve to be punished for it!”

“Not like that!” he yelled back.

“How the fuck would you know?” At some point I’d gotten to my feet and now I glared down at Chris, only just stopping myself from advancing on him. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know anything!”

_Not an acceptable target_ , I told myself. _Not an acceptable target. It’s not his fault. He just doesn’t know any better._

He drew himself up, his eyes flashing with anger of his own as he drew in a breath. But instead of letting loose some sharp retort, he just let the breath out in a sigh, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the anger was more like a dully glowing ember than a roaring flame.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said softly. “But I know that what he did to you was fucked up. I only wish you could understand that.”

The inferno of my rage was still there, still blazing away inside me, but maybe Chris’ gentleness was catching or something, because I found the self-control to soften my stance and gentle my own tone.

“And I wish you could understand that it’s not wrong for a man to discipline his children.”

Dad might have hit me too hard, but that was just a matter of degree. It didn’t mean that he’d been wrong to punish me in the first place. He just needed to work on his fucking control.

Chris looked at me, for a long moment before shaking his head with an oddly helpless expression. “There’s a difference between discipline and abuse.”

_How dare he? How fucking dare he?!_

I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t a fucking victim. What the fuck did I have to do to make these people believe that?

“Well, maybe if your parents had disciplined you once in a while, you wouldn’t be flunking tests. Maybe you’d bother to do your goddamn homework.”

He reeled like I’d punched him in the face, his eyes wide and hurt.

I wanted to stop but I couldn’t, instead casting about for another dart to throw. “Maybe if they’d punished you properly when you fucked up, you wouldn’t be failing math right now!”

“I’m not… I’m not failing.” But the protest had no force behind it, and he hunched in on himself as if nursing a grievous wound.

The sight of his pain was like a blast of ice water, dousing my rage to ashes. Shame stung me like acid at the knowledge that I’d done that to him. The way he was looking at me now, I thought it might have been kinder if it’d just hit him.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes you did.”

My heart broke at his dull, leaden tone. I needed to do something. I needed to find the right words to take away the pain I’d put in his eyes. I needed to find a way to fix what I’d just broken. But the words just wouldn’t come.

That, naturally, was when the ‘mask up’ alarm sounded.


	55. Atychiphobia 4.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to frustratedFreeboota for strategic wielding of the +1 cleaver of beta-ing.

Chris and I both froze for a moment, only for him to shove himself to his feet in an explosive motion.

“I’m going to the workshop,” he muttered, snatching a mask from the wall-mounted dispenser on his way out.

“Chris,” I called out. “Wait.”

He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder, let alone stop. I briefly thought about chasing after him, but my feet seemed rooted to the spot. _It’s probably for the best_ , I told myself despondently. _I’d only fuck things up worse._ The thought stung like lemon juice in paper cuts. Maybe… Maybe after he’d had some time to calm down and I’d had time to think, I could find something to offer him other than a litany of apologies and regrets. Maybe there was still a chance I could somehow fix this. (Maybe I hadn’t just driven away my only real friend.) Maybe. I wasn’t holding out much hope. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try, though; it didn’t mean I would give up without a fight.

I just had no fucking clue what to do. Actively trying to make — and keep — friends wasn’t something with which I had a lot of experience. But I had a more immediate problem.

I retrieved a mask of my own from the dispenser and quickly set about tidying the kitchen. By the time I’d done that, the elevator had reached this level. I eyed the coffee longingly, but resisted the temptation. (I resisted the temptation to hide in my room like a coward and pretend I wasn’t here.) Instead, I gathered up my things and made my way towards the Hub entrance.

The security door opened just before I reached it, swinging back to reveal not one, but two familiar figures. The first was the asshole security guard from my first day as a Ward. (I’d since found out his name, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to give him the honour of using it.) The second was…

“Ms Grant!” I blurted out, startled. “What—” Realisation jolted me like an electric shock, cutting off my question part-way. “You’re here for our meeting.” A meeting that had completely and utterly slipped my mind. Fuck, I hadn’t even tidied my room!

“And I see we’re going to have a lot to talk about,” she said, her gaze lingering pointedly on my sling before she turned to the asshole security guard. “Thank you for the escort, Ryan.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said, nodding at her, before turning to me with a veneer of fake concern. “Talos, you look terrible. Are you okay?”

_Motherfucker!_ Was he mocking me again? What a fucking asshole!

“I'm fine.” I just about managed not to growl the words.

He gave me the oddest look, like he didn’t have the first clue why I might be a teensy bit pissed off by his faux solicitousness. Maybe he was hamming it up for Ms Grant; trying to make me look unreasonable and hostile in front of her. Goddammit to hell. Had I just played right into his hands? What the fuck was his problem anyway? Did he hate all capes, or was it just me, specifically?

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he muttered, doing a damn good job of sounding uncertain and off-balance. I bet he was just trying to make me look bad.

_He needn’t have fucking bothered. I can do that just fine all by myself._

I bit my tongue against the angry words that wanted to break free, the sudden, sharp pain and the faint taste of copper telling me that I’d bitten a little too hard. (Not that I didn’t deserve that, and more.)

“Goodbye,” Ms Grant said to him, earning herself a smile. The door had already clicked shut behind him by the time it occurred to me that I should probably have added my own farewell. Even if I would’ve likely ended up telling him to fuck off. And now Ms Grant was looking at me as if she could see into my soul. “Has the young man done something to offend you?”

“No,” I made myself answer, unable to stop myself adding a begrudging, “not really.”

“Which is it?”

I blinked at her uncertainly for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“Is it ‘not really’, or is it ‘no’? Those aren’t quite the same thing.”

Hellfire and damnation.

“No,” I muttered. I wasn’t a fucking snitch. And I certainly didn’t need any help dealing with some random asshole. _Anyway,_ I grudgingly admitted to myself, _maybe I was overreacting._ It wouldn’t have been the first time. _Maybe he really didn’t mean anything by it._ Maybe. In any case, I needed to change the subject. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Always,” she sighed, a whole wealth of longing in that one word. I thought about the coffee I hadn’t yet so much as tasted and I understood exactly how she felt. “But I’ll make it. Don’t worry.” She gave me a sharp look. “You can sit down.”

Anger kindled and blazed inside me, only to gutter and die as I remembered, again, that my instincts in this regard were fucked.

(A cold, queasy sensation stuttered its way along my nerves, making me feel like I was out of phase, somehow. If I couldn’t trust my own body — if I couldn’t trust my own assessment of my functionality — then what the fuck else couldn’t I trust?)

“Okay.” I sounded resigned to my fate.

Rather than seeming pleased by my ready acquiescence, Ms Grant instead regarded me with mild alarm. “Alright, now I’m worried.”

For fuck’s sake! There was just no pleasing some people.

“You needn’t be,” I said earnestly, falling in beside her as she click-clacked her way to the kitchen. “Dr Hart impressed upon me the importance of not pushing myself too hard, that’s all.” I made myself continue, even though it felt like every word chipped away another sliver from my pride. “I’m trying to be better about looking after myself when I’m… hurt.”

“I see,” she murmured. “I’m very glad to hear that.” That was the last thing she said for a little while as she set about making her tea. I was surprised she didn’t segue into asking about my sling, but I couldn’t deny I was glad of the opportunity to pull myself together and try to get myself in the right headspace for this trial.

_Fuck, I’m tired._ Not to mention distracted to hell and back. And I couldn’t afford to be either of those things, especially not when talking to Ms Grant. She was dangerously easy to talk to sometimes, and there were so many things I simply couldn’t afford to let slip. I tried not to think about my secrets, tried to bury them deep and pretend they didn’t exist, but they just kept on slithering their way back up to the surface, almost like they wanted me to set them free. Almost. Fortunately, though, despite the stupid flashes of temptation to spill my guts to Ms Grant, self-preservation remained sufficient to keep them trapped inside.

At least for now.

It was my own stupid fault, of course. Ever since I’d talked to Triumph about Purity, ever since I’d let myself think about my uncle and my cousins, ever since I’d let my real name start to echo within the walls of my mind, I hadn’t been able to keep that box closed.

I was Astrid Elizabeth Anders. Kaiser’s niece. Iron Rain’s daughter.

And I was several shades of fucked if that ever got out.

A yawn surprised me enough that I tried to cover it with my bad hand, and I was distracted enough that I didn’t quite stifle the yelp that slipped out as my shoulder twinged. My cheeks heated as I clapped my left hand over my mouth, and I prayed that Ms Grant hadn’t noticed the sound.

“Excuse me,” I mumbled, when my jaw was once more under my control.

Ms Grant regarded me over the rim of her mug as she sipped her tea. Suddenly too restless to remain seated (and too cowardly to meet her gaze), I got up to pour myself some coffee.

“I would have got that if you’d asked,” she said. The rebuke was mild but I tensed anyway, cursing silently as my ribs and back complained.

“I didn’t think about it,” I admitted, and then filled my mouth with coffee before I could say something stupid. The bitter black ambrosia scalded my mouth and stung my bitten tongue, but it was a good pain, clearing some of the cobwebs from my mind even before the caffeine started working its magic. Not that coffee did all that much for me any more, but it made me feel a little more human nonetheless. And it was enough of a substitute for confidence that I could actually turn and face Ms Grant with something not entirely unlike cheer. “Would you prefer to talk here, or go somewhere else?” I asked politely. “We pretty much have the run of the place for the moment.” My stomach twisted as I thought about Chris down in the workshop, but I pushed the discomfort away, doing my best to stay focused on the here and now.

“It’s up to you. Where would you be most comfortable?”

Before I’d even really considered the question, I found myself answering, “My room.” Part of me balked at the idea of inviting someone else into the only space I could truly call my own, but mostly… _Maybe I won’t be so fucking antsy once I’m back behind a closed door._

“Very well.”

A short while later, the two of us were ensconced in my room. I sat on my own chair, and Ms Grant was seated on a chair she’d retrieved from the Hub. (I had offered her my own seat, but I couldn’t honestly say I was sorry that she’d turned me down.)

“I’m sorry about the mess,” I said. I sounded about as awkward and uncomfortable as I felt.

Ms Grant looked pointedly around and then shook her head, giving me a wry smile. “If you think this is untidy, I dread to think how you must see my office. Don’t worry, it’s fine.” I relaxed a little at her clear amusement, trying to quell the fluttery feeling that she was just lulling me into a false sense of security. “How are you doing, Astrid?”

And now I was tense again. Well, even more tense.

“Fine, thank you,” I ventured cautiously. “How are you?”

She pulled a face at the question, and I couldn’t help but note the dark circles under her eyes, stark against the pallor of her skin. My concern was deepened, rather than ameliorated, when she answered the question with, “Tolerably well, thank you.”

’Are you sure?’ I almost asked. The only thing that stopped me was the fact that, whatever was wrong, she clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Under normal circumstances, Ms Grant was nothing if not forthright. Even when I’d almost rather she wasn’t. _So if she’s lying about there being anything at all, it must be bad. It must be really bad._

“Good,” I said, failing to think of anything better to say. I also utterly failed to keep the concern from my voice.

Ms Grant took a sip of tea, watching me over the rim of her mug. Despite her clear tiredness, her eyes had lost none of their sharpness, and she studied me with that keen-eyed gaze I’d come to dread.

“Are you going to make me ask?”

I quickly went through the list of things I didn’t want her to ask about, settling on what was both a likely option, and a relatively innocuous one.

“About the sling?”

“Yes. Unless you think there’s something else I should be asking you.”

“No, of course not.” Did I sound guilty? Fuck. I sucked at this. Better just tell her what she wanted to know. “I was practising manoeuvrability techniques. I fell. Sprained my shoulder and got a few bruises.” Hopefully she’d take my stiltedness for embarrassment or awkwardness, rather than mendacity. “It’s just—” I broke off as my brain caught up with my mouth, only just stopping myself from adding the reflexive ‘surface damage’. “It could have been worse,” I said instead.

Hellfire and damnation. I could have been permanently crippled. I could have been **killed**.

“No doubt. Although it would’ve been better if you hadn’t been hurt at all.”

A sigh escaped my lips. “Yeah.”

Lance must have known that the bullets wouldn’t go through my armour. That glance down before he pulled the trigger… that had been a warning, hadn’t it? He’d just been maintaining his cover. Hadn’t he?

_Fuck._

The silence stretched. I focused my attention on my coffee, praying that we’d move onto an easier topic. Like how badly I was fucking up at school.

“Are you alright?”

“I don’t know.”

_Fuck me! I actually fucking said that._

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Like fuck did I want to talk about it. That was the absolute last thing I wanted. (Apart from that tiny, treacherous, thoroughly stupid part of me that potentially, possibly, perhaps kind of did want that.)

“Not much to talk about.” My face was burning. I was glad I’d left the mask on, even though I doubted it completely hid my discomfiture. “I’m still figuring things out.”

Not entirely true, but close enough that it hopefully wouldn’t raise any red flags. Hopefully. _Hellfire and damnation…_ I really wasn’t in the best state for dealing with Ms Grant right now. I would count it as a win if I could get through this conversation without talking myself into a cell. Getting through it without sounding utterly pathetic was already a lost cause.

“Figuring out the things that are troubling you is something that your counsellor should be able to help with.” She paused there, her eyes narrowing a little. “Assuming you actually talk to them.”

I tried not to look guilty.

“I did talk to her.” Not about everything, sure, but I did talk. “Director Piggot ordered me to.” The director had also ordered me to cooperate fully, but that was neither here nor there. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. Or so I hoped. “Although I don’t understand why I have to see her every week.”

“I’m sure she has her reasons.”

_Yeah, she thinks I’m some pathetic victim who’s going to fall to pieces if someone so much as looks at me crosswise._

That had been more than clear from the careful way she’d spoken to me, and from the delicate questions she’d asked. Even if Hess hadn’t explained how the system worked, I would have been tempted not to tell her anything just on that count. The absolute last thing I needed was for her to tell the director I was unfit for duty. Icicles pricked my skin at the mere thought of being judged and found wanting.

(My heart lurched in my chest at the thought that I was already fucking failing.)

I made a noncommittal but agreeable-sounding noise and drank my coffee.

“Do you know if your first patrol is going to be pushed back in light of your injuries?” Ms Grant’s tone was deceptively casual.

“I don’t know.” I hadn’t even thought about that. But if I was supposed to wear a sling for the next week… “I hope not.”

Her lips tightened briefly, but she let it go. Maybe she’d complain to the PR and Branding team; tell them not to deploy me until the doctors judged me fit for purpose. All because — as far as they would know — I’d damaged myself through simple clumsiness. I bet **that** would go down like a lead balloon. Still, I suppose it was marginally better than them knowing it had actually been during the course of an unsanctioned operation. Marginally.

_Maybe I should have just turned Hess down._

But then there wouldn’t have been anyone to stop Creepy pulling his gun, which meant at least one person would have died. Maybe more. Then again, maybe if I hadn’t been there, Lance wouldn’t have had to take hostages.

I didn’t know. I just didn’t know.

The children’s faces flashed into my mind again; eyes wide with terror and cheeks wet with tears. The image shifted, and it was Lance’s face I saw, his expression grim above the gun as he aimed it at me. My chest flared with pain, almost like he’d shot me all over again, and my hand moved without my command, clumsy fingers pressing against the ache to confirm that there was no blood.

“Astrid? Astrid, what’s wrong?” Ms Grant’s voice was sharp with concern.

“Nothing.” _Everything._ “Just a mild twinge.” Better she think I couldn’t take a little pain than that I’d gotten lost in my own head. Again. “I must’ve sat awkwardly and pulled something.”

“Do you need to go back to the infirmary?”

I drew breath to say no, second-guessed myself, third-guessed myself and ended up saying, “I don’t think so, but I will if it gets worse.”

“Good.” Her eyes softened, her mouth curving in a smile. She actually seemed proud of me. Not that I cared. Still, I found myself smiling back at her, the tension inside me easing somewhat. That was probably just as well. The next thing she did was to she set her cup down on my bedside table — on the coaster I’d set out for her, I was relieved to see — and pull out her notebook and pen. “Right. Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Yes, Ms Grant.”

I was growing used to these little interrogations by now. Despite the constant fear that I was going to fuck up and reveal something incriminating, I thought I did a reasonable job of keeping everything locked down and telling Ms Grant the kind of things she wanted to hear. I even managed to conceal my irritation at not being trusted to look after myself properly without constant check-ins. Well, more or less.

“I know it must seem unnecessary to you,” Ms Grant explained patiently, not for the first time, “but these procedures are in place for a reason. You may be a capable young woman, but you’re also a minor, and I’m afraid that means a certain amount of legally mandated oversight.”

“I understand that,” I said, somewhat mollified by not being thought totally useless. “But I really don’t think I need a guardian.”

“Yes, well, I have some news on that front. I’m afraid it’s looking like you’re going to be stuck with me for a little while longer. Apparently the legal guardianship proceedings have hit some manner of bureaucratic snag. Unfortunately, I don’t know the details, and Reid is apparently too busy to fill me in. Or you, it seems, which you’d think would actually be his priority.” Her lip curled with disdain. I was glad it wasn’t aimed at me. “I’m told it’s nothing for you to worry about, though.”

“I see.”

I didn’t envy Mr Reid when she finally caught up with him. I wasn’t precisely sorry that I wasn’t going to be assigned an official minder just yet, although I couldn’t stop myself from wondering what kind of ‘bureaucratic snag’ was causing the problem.

Was it an issue with my records? Gaps and discrepancies here and there were unavoidable when you changed names every few years as a matter of course. But the Berklow identity was supposed to be the last one I’d need before claiming my so-called birthright. It was fucking robust, or at least it was supposed to be. Dad had certainly paid enough for it.

(Just another thing he’d take out of my hide if he ever got his hands on me.)

“Please don’t fret about it, Astrid.”

“I wasn’t,” I lied, too tired to make it even half-way convincing. Ms Grant spoke volumes with a look, but thankfully she didn’t put her disbelief into words. “But I do have some questions.”

“I thought you might.”

I wasn’t entirely sure why she smiled. My first thought was that she was laughing at me, but that didn’t seem right. If anything, she seemed oddly pleased. I set that mystery aside for the moment, instead trying to figure out a way to word this that wouldn’t be rude.

“You seem to think I need a guardian,” I began, since that seemed as good a place as any. “But you also brought up the possibility of legal emancipation. And you just said you think I’m capable.”

“Is there a question in there?” she prompted gently, when I stalled out.

“Isn’t that a contradiction?” I hesitated a moment, then cast caution to the winds and pressed onwards, trusting that she’d understand it wasn’t meant as an insult. “I guess I’m asking what your objective is.”

“Ah.” She closed the notebook and set it down next to her long-emptied mug, placing her pen on top of it and meeting my gaze. “Well. My overall objective is to ensure that you are healthy and happy. Given your home life, and the upheaval you’ve undergone, my personal opinion is that it would be helpful for you to have someone who can be available to help you adjust, and to provide support if you need it. But that isn’t your only option, and it would be remiss of me not to make you aware of the others. It’s your life, after all. You’re entitled to have a say in what happens to you.”

“I am?” The words were out of my mouth before it even occurred to me to try to stop them. They seemed to hang there between us, thickening the air the way hagfish slime turned water to jelly.

Ms Grant sighed, sagging a little in her seat. “Of course you are, Astrid. I apologise if I haven’t made that clear.”

I wasn’t sure what I hated more: seeing her look so diminished and weary, or knowing that I’d caused part of it.

“You don’t need to apologise,” I reassured her awkwardly, relieved when she gave me a brief smile.

“As I’ve mentioned before,” she said, back to her usual brisk tone, “your parahuman status further complicates an already complicated process. The PRT already has a great deal of authority over you, and — thanks to the overly-broad way certain things were set up in the beginning — they have a lot of influence over the current legal proceedings.”

I frowned, struggling to find her meaning through the fog clouding my thoughts. “Is that a problem?”

I tried not to jump to conclusions when she paused before answering.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I hope not.”

“But you think it might be?”

Again, there was that hesitation before she spoke.

“I don’t think they’d necessarily set out to abuse the power they have over you. But I think it would be easy for abuses to happen by accident. And I think that risk will increase if your guardian is someone appointed by them, and who might well prioritise the benefit of the PRT over your welfare.”

“But isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?” I couldn’t help asking. In my head, my father’s voice echoed mine as I added, “The needs of an army outweigh those of any individual soldier.”

“Astrid, you are **not** a soldier,” Ms Grant snapped, startling me with the forcefulness of her protest. “And you have the right to a life that doesn’t revolve around being a cape.”

_Since when?_

One way or another, my whole fucking life had been about cape shit. Why would it be any different now that I was one? I couldn’t say that, though. I couldn’t say any of it. (Even though that treacherous, stupid little part of me still kind of wanted to.)

“It’s just a saying,” I muttered. “It isn’t necessarily literal.” _She’s a civilian,_ I reminded myself tiredly. _She doesn’t understand._

“Isn’t it?”

Her eyes seemed to bore right into my soul. The denial hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t make myself give voice to the lie. Coward that I was, I couldn’t even meet her eyes, using the excuse of adjusting my sling to give myself a moment or two to recover my composure.

My silence must have been damning.

I tried not to think about it as I forced myself to lift my head, straightening my spine as much as I could — even though it made my bruises twinge — and looking her in the eyes.

“Why do you care so much?” It was more of a challenge than a question. I was too tired to worry about it. _Anyway, she gave me permission to get mad at her._ “I’m pretty sure that volunteering to act as my temporary minder was going above and beyond, and I strongly doubt ferrying Wards to school and back is normally part of your duties. Plus there’s the way you keep sticking your neck out for me with the legal stuff.” _Even though it meant antagonising people like Mr Reid, and the PRT’s legal team._ “So, why are you doing this? Why are—” My voice cracked, but I made myself continue. “Why are you wasting so much time and effort on me?”

(I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve any of it. But, as uncomfortable as it could be, as risky as it was to spend time around someone as observant and easy to talk to as she was, as annoying as she could be sometimes, with her questions and assumptions and unwillingness to leave things alone… I thought I might not entirely mind it.)

“I’m not ‘wasting’ anything,” she said primly. “As for why…” She cast a longing glance towards her empty mug. If she was anyone else, I might have thought she was hesitating, but she was probably just putting her thoughts in order. “I used to work in Child Protective Services,” she said abruptly. “And I’ve seen the system fail far too many children in my time. I refuse to stand by and watch while it happens again. Reid…” She shook her head, her hands twitching in her lap as if she wanted to gesture, or to fiddle with something. “He means well, and he’s trying his best, but the man is completely out of his depth. I don’t think it even occurred to him how wildly inappropriate it would have been to just leave you completely to your own devices while your legal status remains in limbo.”

“I would have been fine,” I protested, unable to help myself.

“That isn’t the point, Astrid.” Apparently I wasn’t the only one feeling a certain amount of exasperation. She paused, apparently choosing to ignore my sullen glower in favour of recovering her composure. When she continued, her voice was calm and even once more. “Like I said before, there are procedures. We can’t just discard them ‘just this once’ because ‘it’ll be okay’.” She sounded like she was quoting someone. Mr Reid, perhaps? “We have to make certain that things will be alright. I know you understand the principle of due diligence.”

“Of course.” I frowned, but it was more in thoughtfulness than irritation, my brief fit of pique already fading as I worked my way through the implications of what she’d told me. “So, you think the whole… legal custody slash guardianship” — _I probably shouldn’t call it a clusterfuck, although that’s sure as shit what it sounded like_ — “thing is likely to work out badly for me, somehow? Because of your experiences with CPS?”

Shit. What could possibly be worse than what I’d fled? Then again, Ms Grant didn’t know the real reason I’d run away from home. She just thought I was some helpless victim.

“I don’t know. Not for certain. I just… worry.” She certainly looked it. And like the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. The dark circles under her eyes almost looked like bruises. _Maybe I’m not the only one who’s been having nightmares._ She shook her head. “And I really shouldn’t have shared that with you. I’m sorry, Astrid. It isn’t your burden to bear.”

“I’d rather know,” I said softly. “And I did ask.” I shook my head helplessly, struggling to give words to the too-big, too-loud, too-many fucking feelings churning around inside me. “I’m so fucking tired of not knowing shit. Like where I fit, or what’s expected of me. What is and isn’t acceptable to say, or do, or think, or what-the-fuck-ever.” What the punishment was for fucking up. “I’m **trying** , I really am, but half the time I don’t even know the right questions to ask, let alone the… the… most politically fucking correct way to ask them.” I felt my mouth twist into a sneer even as chills went down my spine; my hands clenching into fists while phantom fingers wrapped themselves around my neck. “Almost every time I open my mouth, I either upset someone or piss them off, often both at the same time.” I was almost choking on déjà vu, scalded by the memory of my disastrous conversation with Chris. “No matter what I do, I keep fucking up. I even made the team leader mad at me. And I don’t have a fucking clue why he hasn’t just—”

I cut myself off before I could finish that sentence, but the way her gaze sharpened told me it was too late.

“Hasn’t just what?”

_Hellfire and damnation!_

“Nothing.”

The silence lingered like an unwelcome guest. Perhaps Ms Grant was waiting to see if I’d open my big mouth and blab more things I shouldn’t. I bit my tongue again to stop me doing just that. It stung.

“No one here is going to hurt you,” she said, eventually. “And the PRT doesn’t use corporal punishment. Not under any circumstances.” I didn’t reply. I didn’t trust myself to speak. It took an effort to remind myself that she probably didn’t realise she was feeding me a line of bullshit. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know how things really worked. I wasn’t going to blame her for her ignorance when the PRT deliberately kept her in the dark. After yet another interminable silence, she sighed. Instead of repeating the official party line though, she said, “Will you tell me what happened with Aegis?”

I couldn’t stop myself from flinching just at the memory of that conversation. _Christ, I really am pathetic._

“Nothing important,” I said stiffly. “I just said something stupid.” If only I’d had more self-control when Carlos told me what he was. If only I’d kept my surprise to myself, it would have made thing so much easier.

“Does the incident have anything to do with that ‘hypothetical’ question you asked me the other day?”

Goddammit. Talking with her really was a fucking minefield. If only Amy hadn’t rattled me so much with her stupid, petty needling. If only I hadn’t been so tied up in knots about it that I’d been driven to ask Ms Grant if a guy giving a girl jewellery really meant he wanted to fuck her. And if only Ms Grant hadn’t suggested just straight out **asking** if it meant anything.

I should’ve known better than to take her advice. Nothing good ever came of me opening my fucking mouth.

(Even if I didn’t think I could’ve taken another minute of worrying that he was going to… That he might have been expecting things from me. Even if the certainty of pain was better by far than the fear of… worse. Even if Ms Grant had been right about it being better to know for sure.)

“I assume that your silence means it does?” Ms Grant said, when I failed to answer her question.

“I can’t talk about it.”

“Can’t?”

“Yes.” Just because the team, plus Amy, knew about Carlos’ proclivities, that didn’t mean Ms Grant did. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to risk committing yet another disciplinary offence by telling her.

I half-expected her to demand I tell her anyway, but all she said was, “Alright. I won’t push.”

“Thank you,” I said cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“So, which of your other teammates have you been having trouble with?”

_And there it is._

“It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing. It sounds like it’s something that’s bothering you a great deal.”

“It probably sounds much worse than it really is. I’m just a little tired and out of sorts, that’s all.”

_Understatement of the fucking century._

She regarded me for a moment. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t need help!” I snarled. “And I definitely don’t want to fucking talk about it!” I glared at her, and then froze, horrified. _What the fuck am I doing?_ “I’m sorry, Ms Grant. I didn’t mean to…” No, that wasn’t true. I had meant to. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

My hands felt clammy, my pulse pounding in my ears. No matter how many times I told myself that Ms Grant wasn’t going to have me disciplined for disrespect, my stupid body didn’t get the memo, almost vibrating in place with the amount of adrenaline pumping through me. It was about all I could do not to shift restlessly in my seat.

“It’s alright.” To my surprise and relief, she didn’t even sound mad. “I know this whole situation is difficult. I think a little shortness of temper is entirely understandable, especially when I’m asking intrusive questions.” To my surprise, she actually smiled at me. “Anyway, as far as angry outbursts go, that was actually pretty mild.”

I should have been pissed off that she was making fun of me but, strangely, I… wasn’t. I even found myself relaxing a little.

“You really don’t mind?” I had to ask.

“No, of course not. Like I’ve said before, you’re allowed to have and express emotions.”

My face felt weird, like it didn’t know what expression to show. I tried to stop it showing anything at all, but it was harder than it should have been.

“I should have better self-control.”

“In my opinion, nothing good ever comes of repressing your feelings.” That sounded like utter bullshit to me, but I wasn’t going to call her on it. “And I’m not going to press you to talk to me if you don’t want to, but I think it would be a good idea for you to talk to someone. Preferably your counsellor.”

“I did talk to her,” I said again, hoping my stupid cheeks weren’t flushing as obviously as I feared they were.

“Then I hope you continue to do so. And if you’re having problems with your teammates, you can always talk to Ian Renick.”

My eyebrows lifted without my intending it, my voice emerging as a scandalised almost-yelp. “The deputy director?”

“I don’t know of another Ian Renick employed by the PRT,” she said dryly. “But he is responsible for supervising the Wards. Helping to smooth over any interpersonal issues seems well within his remit.”

My throat seized up and I just stared at her, utterly aghast. She wanted me to confess my fuck ups to the goddamn deputy director? She might as well just send me to the basement herself.

Somehow, I wasn’t entirely sure how, I managed to force words out past the lump in my throat. “Thank you for the advice, Ms Grant, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

The coffee I’d drunk sat uneasily in my stomach, and the air in here felt thin. The memory of pressure wrapped around my neck like a noose, and it took all of my willpower not to start clawing at my throat.

Ms Grant frowned as she looked at me, and my heart sank as I wondered how much of my stupid fucking twitchiness I was broadcasting.

_Control,_ I told myself miserably.

“Astrid,” she began, leaning forward a little in her seat, “it’s not a personal failing on your part if you’re having difficulty adjusting. Considering everything you’ve been through, it’s more than understandable. You’re not going to get in trouble for it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that if I get wind of anything of the sort I’m going to have sharp words with all concerned,” she said tartly.

I winced before I could stop myself. “Wouldn’t that just make things worse? If other people are reprimanded because of my mistakes, they’re going to… to end up resenting me. Aren’t they?”

I didn’t know why I’d made it a question. I knew for a fact they would. Case in point: Lance, after Dad had disciplined him for going too far during the more vicious of our ‘discussions’. I couldn’t think of a time when he hadn’t made me pay for that.

I searched Ms Grant’s face for any hint as to what might have been going through her head, but all I saw was something that looked a lot like… sadness?

“I promise I won’t do anything that will have negative consequences for you,” she said quietly, but firmly. “I know what I’m doing, Astrid. I hope you can trust me on that.”

“I wasn’t doubting your competence,” I assured her, mentally kicking myself. “I just…” I shrugged helplessly, biting my tongue as my bad shoulder twinged. “I really don’t want to fuck things up any worse than I already have.”

“I understand.” A soft sigh escaped her lips, and she seemed tired again all of a sudden. “I wish you would believe me that no one is going to punish you the way your father did, but I understand why you don’t.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. “I only have your best interests at heart. Can you trust me on that, at least?”

I thought about it for a moment. She was naive, hopelessly so, and she didn’t have the first clue how the world really worked. But she’d risked her own standing with the PRT to advocate on my behalf when she didn’t have to, and — as little as I needed a guardian — she’d given up her own time to ensure that I got my ‘legally mandated adult oversight’. As far as I could tell, she’d always been honest with me, even though it might have been easier for her if she wasn’t, sometimes. And the pain I’d glimpsed in her eyes and heard in her voice when she talked about not wanting to stand by and watch the system fail again… I would bet my ass that had been real. So…

“Yes,” I whispered.

She cared. And it wasn’t just about doing her job, because she’d already gone above and beyond on that score. As strange and unlikely as it seemed, she actually cared about me. (Even if that was only because she didn’t know who I really was.) And that felt… actually kind of good, but also kind of weird, and I didn’t have the first fucking clue what to do with that.

“Good.” She smiled at me then, amusement in her voice as she asked, “Now, let’s move on to something less touchy-feely, shall we?”

“Fuck, yes.” I twitched. “Uh, sorry.”

She laughed, but it kind of felt like she was laughing with me, not at me, and I found myself smiling sheepishly back at her.

“That’s quite alright,” she said, her demeanour sobering once more as she reached for her notebook and pen. “Now, since you brought up the subject of emancipation, you reminded me that there’s something I forgot to tell you…”

I did my best to take in all the details, but I couldn’t quite stop my attention from wandering. What she’d said about the PRT… She seemed so sure. But that couldn’t possibly be right. Sure, I’d maybe sort of come to the conclusion that Captain Cavendish treated the subject of discipline differently to my father, but he was probably just eccentric. Anyway, the squaddies were grown-ass men and women, not a group of teenagers.

‘If I don’t take a firm hand with you now,’ Dad always said, ‘then you’ll never learn. And pain is the best teacher.’

No, Ms Grant was wrong. She had to be wrong. She had to be. I knew how things worked. And when Carlos eventually decided to mete out whatever punishment I deserved, I’d finally, finally be able to stop tying myself in knots worrying about how bad it would be.

A shiver ran down my spine, my breath catching in my throat at the sudden chill in the air.

_I just wish he’d fucking get on with it._


	56. Atychiphobia 4.11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> frustratedFreeboota has now foolishly signed up to beta this thing on an ongoing basis. That poor, unfortunate soul.

My eyelids drifted slowly closed, my head nodding forward as a deep yawn threatened to split my face in two. I didn’t even have the energy to cover my mouth, not that there was anyone here to care.

_I need to finish this essay outline,_ I told myself muzzily, the thought slipping and sliding around my head like a puppy on ice. _I can take a quick break afterwards._

The pen fell from my slack fingers, hit the desk with a clunk and then rolled right off onto the floor somewhere.

_I should pick that up._ My room was in enough of a state as it was, no matter what Ms Grant had said. Anyway, I needed that pen. I needed it to… _What was I doing?_ Oh, right. My history essay. Well, just the planning and research for now, but that didn’t mean I should give the task any less than my full attention. The essay had to be good. No, better than good. It had to be perfect.

The full import of what Ms Grant had said on my first day at Arcadia — about it having higher academic standards than Winslow — was finally starting to sink in, and it really wasn’t looking good. I was used to being at or near the top of the class in any and all of my other schools — Dad wouldn’t have accepted anything less — but at Arcadia, so was everyone else. Victoria was taking college classes, for fuck’s sake! She really was perfect, with her hair and her voice and her… everything.

But I was getting sidetracked.

Anyway, I bet Victoria would be doing her homework. She wouldn’t be lazing around… woolgathering instead of doing what had to be done. So I should just… I should…

Should I even be going to Arcadia at all? What if the only reason I’d had the grades to get in was because I hadn’t really been challenged at Winslow? I honestly didn’t think I’d ever really been challenged before, not like this. I was stuck playing catch-up, but that didn’t mean there was any sense in sitting around and whining about it.

I’d just have to work a little harder, that was all. I could do that. I had to do that. Which meant I needed to open my stupid eyes, retrieve my fucking pen and finish outlining this godforsaken essay.

Any moment now.

Any… moment… now.

_If only my eyelids weren’t so damned heavy…_

Fraction by fraction, my muscles shed their tension so that I slowly sank back into my chair. It cradled my bruised and battered body the way I imagined a mother might cradle her child, and I drowsily thanked my past self for deciding to spend a little extra on acquiring a seat that was actually comfortable to sit on. Guilt raked me for the thought, or tried to, but its claws were blunted by the layers of cotton wool swaddling my brain.

_Fuck off, Dad,_ I thought muzzily. _I’m allowed to be comfortable in my own damn room._

(It was dangerous to get complacent.)

I didn’t give a flying fuck if it was weak of me.

(Things could always be taken away, or broken, or left behind.)

It was my goddamn chair, and I could enjoy it if I wanted to.

(So I’d better make the most of it while I could.)

_Five minutes,_ I promised myself. _I’ll just close my eyes for five minutes, and then I’ll get back to work._

I’d do a better job if I was more alert. I wouldn’t be so goddamn slow. I’d have less chance of making some stupid mistake.

_Just… five… minutes…_

* * * * *

A banshee’s wail tore through the air, making me jump half out of my skin and startling a yelp out of me. I shot bolt upright and almost fell out of my chair when my recalcitrant body failed to cooperate, flailing gracelessly about for a moment. I only stopped myself from tumbling to the floor at the cost of yanking my bad shoulder and making my newest bruises clamour for attention.

I ignored my body’s complaints, focusing instead on the Herculean task of scrambling to my feet and standing to as close an approximation of attention as I could manage. My heart was pounding like a drum, the sound of it almost deafening in the silence following that awful, awful sound. My thoughts felt slippery, wriggling free from my grasp when I tried to pin them down, but there was one thing I knew for sure.

_I am so fucked._

“I’m sorry, Sir.” The words slipped out automatically while I struggled to get my bearings, to figure out what objective I’d failed by falling asleep on duty. “I didn’t mean—”

‘Are you making excuses, girl?’

I choked on the rest of my words, my mouth filling with the taste of copper as I bit my tongue against the whimper that wanted to struggle free. My whole body tensed in anticipation, and I slowly lifted my gaze… to see nothing more ominous than my bed.

Realisation hit me like a spray of ice-water, a scalding wave of shame following close behind it.

_Good going, idiot._

Christ. It was a fucking good job no one else had been around to see me make a complete and utter fool of myself. Small mercies, I guessed. I sighed deeply, cursing myself viciously as I rubbed at my sore and gritty eyes.

Coffee. I needed coffee. And to be less of a pathetic, misbegotten fuck up, but since that didn’t seem to be happening any time soon, I would just have to settle for coffee. And the distraction of my schoolwork. There was a nagging little whisper at the edges of my mind; a feeling like I’d forgotten something. Something important. But I didn’t have the first fucking clue what it was. I glanced around my room, hoping that something would jog my memory, only to freeze, gaping, as my gaze snagged on something unexpected. All other thought fled as I tried to make sense of what I was looking at.

Metal had erupted from the floor of my room and unfurled into a jagged forest of spikes and filaments. The structure filled — no, aggressively occupied — the space between me and the door. It was like the world’s spikiest art installation. If it had been a sculpture, its name would have been ‘Fuck Off And Die’.

_Why… When did I do this?_

I didn’t remember. I just didn’t remember. God, had I done it in my sleep? When I’d startled awake? When I’d been cursing myself for my stupidity? I didn’t know. This was… bad. This was really fucking bad.

_Control,_ I told myself, but the thought was thready and weak. I shook my head and stiffened my resolve, a thought sending my own metal sliding over my skin to press against one of the many sore spots on my body. But that wasn’t enough, not this time, and so another thought gave it teeth and made it bite. Not too deep; just enough that I would feel it. (Enough to make the lesson stick.) _Control,_ I told myself more firmly.

Now that was taken care of, I set my mind to fixing the damage I’d caused. Putting the metal back was easy, but the underlay and carpet had more holes now than a fucking colander. And my poor rug looked positively moth-eaten. I tried to ignore the way I cared more about that than I did about damaging PRT property. _No one’s going to discipline me for ruining my own shit,_ I berated myself. And it was just… stuff. It wasn’t important.

(So what if I’d chosen it myself and bought it with my own money? So what if this was the first time in my whole damn life I’d ever owned anything that didn’t ultimately come from my father? It was still just stuff. It didn’t matter to me. It didn’t.)

Setting aside distractions, I lowered myself carefully to the ground and studied the carpet and underlay, trying to figure out the best way to repair the holes. The underlay wasn’t too bad. The foam had enough give to it that I could shove the edges together, seal them and then smooth down the resulting patches. It would be ugly as fuck, but since no one was going to see the damn thing, it should be okay. I hoped. I could more or less do the same thing with the carpet — thankfully, the PRT had gone for the cheap, hardwearing stuff — but I needed to figure out something a little more elegant if I wanted to have a hope in hell of concealing all evidence of my lapse.

I poked experimentally at an out of the way patch, getting a feel for how the bonds flexed and shifted.

_Still feels like I’m forgetting something…_

Someone knocked at my door.

My head snapped around, and I stared, wide-eyed, cursing myself all over again as the answer clicked into place. The mask up alarm. **That** had been what had startled me awake. And I’d… Fuck, I’d just forgotten? What the hell was wrong with me?

The intruder knocked again.

“Candygram for Talos,” came a familiar male voice. “You in there?”

Of all the fucking times for Assault to show up, why in the name of all that was holy did it have to be **now**? I glanced around at my disaster of a room and struggled not to drown in despair. _Fucking figures._

“Just a minute,” I called out, getting to my feet. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling with ground glass. Fucking felt like it, too.

“Cool, you are there,” he replied, cheerfully stating the obvious. “I was starting to wonder.” That didn’t seem to need a reply, so I saved my attention for putting my mask on. And racking my brains for a way to try to stop him from seeing what I’d done to the carpet. “Are you decent?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yes, of course.”

“Great.”

The door handle turned as I was reaching for it, the door shifting minutely in its frame as Assault tried to open it. I glared, my mouth already starting to frame some angry exclamation before I caught myself and dialled it back down a notch or three.

“It’s locked,” I said, as mildly as I could manage. “Just a moment.”

(My hand shook a little as I unlocked the door. Must have been the come-down from the adrenaline spike, or a side-effect of my tiredness. In any event, I forced it to stop.)

When I cracked the door open, Assault was leaning against the opposite wall, his arms folded. As my gaze settled on him, he gave a deep sigh and exaggeratedly checked a nonexistent watch.

“Finally!”

I went still. My heart fluttered in my chest, and my stupid hands wanted to shake again. I refused to let them, keeping my chin up and meeting Assault’s visored gaze like I actually had some goddamn dignity.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sir,” I said. My voice was stiff and wooden, but at least I didn’t sound like a scared child. All in all, I’d take that as a win.

His lips pursed. “What did I tell you about calling me ’Sir’?” he said sternly.

My stupid body flinched before I could stop it. Mortification set my cheeks aflame as I sent up a futile prayer that maybe he hadn’t noticed my twitchiness.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

He regarded me for a moment, and then shrugged. “Hey,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m just teasing.”

“Oh.” What was it with these people and their insistence on joking around? It was hard enough to figure them out when they were being serious. When they were trying to be fucking funny, it got whole orders of magnitude more difficult. “Did you want to have that talk now?”

_What an utterly asinine question,_ I thought with disgust. _I really doubt this is a fucking social call._

“That’s the plan,” he confirmed brightly. “I would’ve called ahead, but didn’t want to take the chance that you’d bolt if I gave you some warning.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” I protested, horror turning my blood to ice. Christ, how shitty an impression must I have made on him if he thought so poorly of me?

“Man, you really are wound tight, aren’t you?” The fucker actually sounded amused.

_Fuck you, asshole,_ I thought bitterly, struggling not to scowl at him. _You keep me waiting all this time and then you have the fucking nerve to criticise me for being a little on edge? Just… go fuck yourself. Sideways. With a shovel._

“Just waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Or the hammer to fall. And… _Shit, I said that first bit out loud, didn’t I?_

I narrowly stopped myself from flinching again. Fortunately, though, Assault just laughed.

“Good thing I didn’t leave it any longer then. You might just have imploded from the tension.” _What a fucking asshole._ I bit my tongue, not trusting myself to speak, and the silence lingered awkwardly. “Alright, then,” he said, crossing the corridor towards me. I took a step back without thinking about it, roundly cursing myself when I realised that exposed my mess of a room to his gaze. _Maybe he won’t notice,_ I thought hopefully. _Maybe…_ But he was already tilting his head to get a better look. “Is your carpet supposed to look like that?”

For a brief, mad moment I was tempted to say yes and just brazen it out, but I quashed that impulse as soon as it reared its ugly head. Painful experience had taught me that a partial confession was better in the long run than an outright denial that subsequently — almost inevitably — came unravelled.

“I had an… accident,” I muttered, because that sounded marginally better than, ‘I lost control of my power because I was having a stupid fucking waking nightmare, or whatever’. “An experiment went awry. I’m pretty sure I can fix the damage, though.” Or so I thought. (Hoped. Prayed.) I willed my face not to betray me, forcing myself to keep my gaze up like I had nothing to hide. I was so busy focusing on keeping my expression under control, though, that I forgot about my stupid mouth. “Are you going to report it?”

On the plus side, he wasn’t studying the evidence of my fuck up any longer. Oh the minus side, his attention was trained on me like a spotlight, and he was grinning like I’d made a joke.

“Kid, you obviously don’t know me at all. If you did, you’d know I was the last person you should be accusing of being a damn snitch.”

_God-ficking-dammit! Can’t I do anything right?_

“I intended no disrespect,” I said quickly. “I hope I haven’t caused offence.”

_And I’m not a fucking child._ But the thought had no real force behind it. I was too distracted by the unease tying my insides in knots.

“Chill,” he said. “I’m not offended. But, fun as this is, I didn’t actually come here to see how far I could wind you up before you cracked. So let’s go commandeer an office. And maybe some coffee. We need to have a talk.”

_A ’talk’._ My skin prickled with goose pimples, and it was all I could do not to shiver. The place was obviously a little draughty today. _Fucking awesome._

“There’s coffee in the pot in the kitchen,” I said. “Should I get it and meet you by the offices?” _Please say yes,_ I damn near begged within the privacy of my own mind. I really needed a moment or two to pull myself together and get my game face on. _Please, please say yes._

“Sure, sounds good.” _Oh, thank fuck._ He started to head off in the direction of the offices, pausing to call back over his shoulder, “I take my coffee as black as my soul and just as bitter.”

“I remember.” I froze as it occurred to me how that might sound. “Uh, that you don’t take milk and sugar, I mean.”

The sound of his laughter floated back down the corridor towards me, making my hackles rise and my hands clench into fists.

“Relax, Talos. Whatever you may have heard about me, I swear I don’t bite.” _Just say nothing,_ I ordered myself. _Don’t you say a fucking thing._ He was almost around the corner. I just had to keep it together for a few moments longer, and then I’d get my precious fucking reprieve. _Just a few moments longer._ But then, as if he was deliberately timing this just to fuck with me, Assault stopped and turned to face me, and he was smirking like the devil himself. “Well,” he said, conspiratorially, “not anyone but Battery.”

Naturally, I choked. And then he laughed at me, because of course he fucking did, but then he finally, finally, fucking finally sauntered off around the corner, leaving me free to glare after him with the full force of my ire.

_What an **asshole**!_

* * * * *

_Okay,_ I told myself. _Let’s try this again. Preferably without fucking up this time._

Taking a deep breath, I straightened my spine, put my chin up and set my face in the most inscrutable expression I could manage. Then and only then did I make my way down the hallway to the only office with an open door. Naturally, that was when everything started to go horribly wrong.

_How the fuck am I supposed to knock?_

Between the sling immobilising one arm and the mug clutched carefully in my other hand, I was kind of stuck. I could hardly just walk straight in, I didn’t want to kick at the door, and using my metal risked spilling the coffee. (Anyway, I wasn’t entirely sure of the etiquette governing the casual use of powers around superiors and so preferred to err on the side of caution.) After a moment’s thought, I cleared my throat.

“I have your coffee” —I had to bite back a ’Sir’— “Assault.”

I was a little surprised to note that, rather than waiting behind the desk, he’d instead pulled a couple of chairs into the middle of the room and was lounging carelessly on one of them, fiddling idly with his phone. Disapproval and unease warred within me at the sight.

“Well, don’t just taunt me with it. Bring it here!” He put his phone away and made grabbing motions with his hands. I guessed that counted as permission to enter the room. I did so, carefully holding out the mug. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, inhaling deeply of the aroma before taking a drink. Sighing in apparent satisfaction, he leaned back in his seat, stretching one arm across the chair back and bringing up one leg to rest its ankle on his other knee. “Although since you’re also the reason I was up half the night dealing with the aftermath of a cape fight, I guess it balances out.”

“I’m sorry.” I hated myself for the trepidation I couldn’t quite keep out of my voice, for the way my hands wanted to shake. (For the fact that, no matter how many times I told myself my father wasn’t here, I could still feel his fucking hand on my throat.)

“Eh, it happens. If it wasn’t that, it would’ve been something else. So don’t sweat it.” _But he brought it up in the first fucking place! Why would he have done that if not to remind me that I fucked up?_ “I’m surprised you didn’t get yourself some too,” he added. “You look like you need it.”

“I think I’ve had enough for the moment.” It wasn’t quite a lie, given how I’d just downed half a mug of the stuff in the kitchen. “Shall I close the door?”

“Sure.” I did so and then stood to attention, biting back a curse as my bruises reminded me of their presence. Assault tilted his head, looking up at me over the rim of his mug. “What?” he asked.

Apparently we were doing this the hard way.

“May I sit?”

He coughed. Some of his coffee must’ve gone down the wrong way. Thumping his chest exaggeratedly with his free hand — ‘exaggerated’ seemed to be his usual mode of operation — he shook his head, wheezing for a moment before settling down again.

“I’d ask if you were being sarcastic, buuuut I’m pretty sure you’re not.” My pulse racing, I opened my mouth to confirm that ‘sarcastic’ was about as far from my intent as you could get, but he languidly waved off anything I might’ve babbled. “Just sit down already. I’m getting a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, my face ablaze with shame as I obeyed.

“And stop apologising, dammit.”

I barely stopped myself from flinching at the exasperation in his voice. “I’m—” Hellfire and damnation! “I mean, okay.”

_So much for not fucking this up._ I fidgeted with my sling, more to give myself something to focus on than because it needed adjusting, resting my arm carefully on the chair. My shoulder was throbbing, and had been since I’d jerked awake at my desk. I made a mental note to ice it again later.

“How’d that happen?” Assault asked, nodding at my arm.

I instinctively started to give my cover story, but then stopped, realising the futility of it. “Rune tagged me with one of her concrete slabs,” I said instead. Telling the truth felt weirdly kind of good, even if I was under no illusion that it would actually set me free. “And I probably aggravated it by using my wires to fling myself around.” Even with an improvised harness to distribute the force, that method of locomotion had been pretty damn hard on my joints. Just another thing I was going to have to practise.

He winced for some reason. “Anything broken?”

“No, just sprained.” A sigh escaped me. “Plus a fucktonne of bruises, apparently.”

“Including ones from being shot. Twice.”

I eyed him cautiously, wondering what he wanted me to say. When nothing better presented itself, I went with, “Yes.”

He sipped his coffee. The silence pooled around us, clotting and thickening until it almost seemed like it might choke me. Despite the stupid urge to disrupt it by saying something, anything, no matter how incriminating, I managed to keep my stupid mouth shut. For once.

“Well, I’m glad you went to the infirmary.”

“You ordered me to,” I pointed out, cringing inside as some of my irritation seeped into my words. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice. “But I would’ve gone anyway.”

_I will from now on,_ I promised myself. _Even if it doesn’t feel necessary._

“And you always obey orders, do you?”

“I try to.” Apart from when I didn’t.

“Then how’d you end up fighting Rune?”

A thousand and one possible responses flitted through my mind, but in the end all I could say was, “I have no excuse.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Christ, what did he want from me? We both knew I’d fucked up. What the fuck was he dragging this out for? Just to see me squirm? The room felt too small; too close. My skin crawled like I was standing next to a high voltage power line, mingled anger and humiliation burning me from the inside out.

He regarded me silently for a few moments and then shook his head, sighing loudly. “What am I going to do with you, Talos?”

_How the fuck should I know, asshole?_

It would have been wiser to stay silent, but I just couldn’t help myself. I was too rattled by the tension and the uncertainty and the lingering twitchiness from that stupid fucking nightmare-thing.

“That’s up to you, I suppose.”

“I guess it is,” he said agreeably, like we were just discussing the weather. “So, tell me what happened.”

“Which part?”

“Start at the beginning, continue until you get to the end, and then stop.”

_And he had the fucking nerve to accuse me of being sarcastic? Bastard._

“From when I encountered Rune, you mean?”

“Nice try, but no. Start around when you decided to set out on an unofficial patrol.”

“It… wasn’t really a patrol, per se,” I muttered.

“Oh? Ended up in ABB territory by accident, did you? You were just minding your own business and accidentally tripped over a gang fight?”

I twitched. “Not… quite.”

“Word of advice, kid: don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“I’m not a fucking kid.” The words just burst out of me, unplanned and unforeseen, and I felt my hands clench into fists even as a wave of cold chilled me to the bone. “Don’t call me that. I have a goddamn name, and it sure as shit isn’t kid.” Whatever the fuck this was, I just couldn’t stop, even though every word felt like a nail in my coffin. “I’m **not** a child and I haven’t been for a long time now. You don’t have to fucking patronise me. You’re here because I fucked up. I’m not arguing the point, and I’ve already told you I have no excuses to give. So what’s the point in dragging this out? Just discipline me and fucking get it over with!”

I panted for breath, my hands trembling uncontrollably as I glared at Assault, trying to ignore the sick, sinking feeling in my stomach.

I should have apologised for my outburst, but my pride wouldn’t let me. Anyway, what was the point? It wasn’t like being sorry had ever made things less painful in the past, no matter how genuine my regret. No, I’d made this bed. I would lie in it with something like grace.

He calmly took a sip of his coffee, and then set it down on the desk — without a coaster, I couldn’t help noticing — his attention on me the whole time. I tensed in anticipation when he shifted his weight, but rather than getting up he merely settled himself more comfortably in his chair.

In a mild tone, he asked, “Are you done?”

“I think so,” I muttered, struggling not to cower pathetically in my seat as the full import of what I’d just done slammed into me like a tonne of bricks.

“Feel better?”

What the fuck kind of a question was that? I’d yelled at a superior officer, sworn at him, and undoubtedly talked my way right into the basement. The only way in which I could possibly have made this worse would’ve been if I’d actually tried to hit him. And yet there was an odd kind of… relief coursing through me; a release of the tension that had been building inside and feeding on itself like an ouroboros.

“I guess.”

The anger and the fear were both starting to fade now, leaving behind a feeling of calm inevitability. This was out of my hands. There was nothing I could do; no excuse I could make that would head off what was to come. All I could do was accept my fate with a modicum of dignity.

Unexpectedly, Assault grinned. “I patronise everybody,” he said, pausing for emphasis before deliberately adding, “kid.” His grin widened at my angry intake of breath, but he continued speaking over any retort I might have given. “It’s one of my joys in life, and you’re just gonna have to get used to it. But discipline’s never been my strong suit, and it isn’t why I’m here.”

“What?”

He shook his head slowly. “You seriously need to learn to relax. If you don’t, you’re going to burn out in no time flat. And, as fun as that might be to witness — from a safe distance — I’d rather not have it happen on my watch. If nothing else, Battery would never let me hear the end of it. So why don’t you take a deep breath, accept that whatever expectations you have about this little chat are waaaay off base, and calm the fuck down.”

Utterly bewildered, I found myself taking a deep breath and forcing my hands to unclench, suppressing a wince as my fingers and palms complained at me. As did my shoulder, and my chest and back. Basically, my whole fucking body. Humiliation set my face aflame as I realised just how pathetic I must have looked.

_Way to make a good impression on a superior,_ I thought miserably.

“I’m calm,” I said, my voice as flat and expressionless as I could make it. “Now what?”

Assault regarded me from behind his visor. “What do you think happens now?”

“I get in trouble for last night’s clusterfuck **and** for yelling at a superior officer.”

“Kid, you really have the wrong idea about me.” For about the first time since he got here, Assault actually sounded halfway serious. “And if you think last night was a clusterfuck, you’re in for a rude awakening when the shit really hits the fan.”

“I don’t understand.”

Was he saying he wasn’t going to discipline me? Or maybe… maybe he just meant that it wasn’t his place; that he was going to let my immediate superior be the one to deal with me. _Because Aegis really needs another excuse to punish me._ Fuck. It would’ve been kinder in the long run if Assault just disciplined me himself. At least then it would be over with. (At least he probably had the self-control not to go too far.) My stomach flip-flopped queasily, and I resisted the urge to press my hand to my ribs.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he murmured, and then sighed. “Okay. Let’s try this another way.” To my surprise, he reached up and pulled off his helmet, revealing tousled brown hair and dark, amused-looking eyes. “Hi. I’m Ethan. Nice to meet you…” He trailed off, rolling his eyes when all I did was stare helplessly. “Now it’s your turn,” he stage-whispered.

I really didn’t want to do this, but an order was an order, so I swallowed my unease as best as I could and took off my own mask.

“Astrid,” I said softly.

_Hellfire and damnation, why is he staring at me like that?_ Had he been an Empire cape? Could he have known my mother? Would he notice my resemblance to her?

“Those bruises look a little old to have come from last night,” he said, pointing at my face.

_Oh, thank fuck._

“They’re from last week.”

I’d hoped my clipped tone made it perfectly fucking clear I didn’t want to talk about it, but he either didn’t know or didn’t care, instead studying me like I was a goddamn specimen as he asked, “What happened?”

“A difference of opinion.”

“Did you start it?”

“Not exactly.” Lance had thrown the first punch, but I couldn’t deny I’d provoked him. I’d known what would happen when I taunted him. He was fucking predictable like that sometimes. Then again, so was I.

“Did you finish it?”

A scowl twisted my face before I could stop it. “Not exactly.” I was unable to stop myself adding, “But I made the fucker bleed.”

“Good for you,” he said, laughing a little. “That’s not nothing. Sometimes making a bastard bleed is the best you can do.”

“Yeah,” I said, telling myself that his approval, like FrouFrou’s, didn’t make me sit up straighter; didn’t buoy my spirits and make me feel like I maybe wasn’t a complete fuck up after all. What the fuck did it matter? He wasn’t in my chain of command. Was he? Then again, he was here about my little outing last night. But he didn’t seem to expect me to treat him like a commanding officer. Unless he was just letting me rack up infractions so he had a reason put me in my place. Fuck. I really hated not knowing where I stood.

“Alright. Now that we’ve bonded or whatever, let’s try this again. Tell me about last night’s so-called clusterfuck.”

I opened my mouth but then hesitated, eyeing him cautiously. “May I ask a question?”

Assault — Ethan — rolled his eyes. “And here I thought we were making progress. Go ahead. Ask.”

“Is this an official debrief?”

“Does **anything** about this seem official to you?”

Would he be offended if I said no? Would he be more offended if I stayed silent?

“Not as such,” I hedged. I took another breath, willing my voice to remain level. “Am I in trouble?”

“Not as such,” he mimicked, frowning when I couldn’t stop myself from tensing. He sighed heavily and snatched up his cup again, downing whatever remained of his coffee and slamming the cup back down on the desk like he’d just knocked back a shot of alcohol. “Listen up, kid. I’m gonna tell you how this really works. Okay?” He looked at me expectantly.

“Okay,” I echoed warily.

“Okay,” he said again. “Extracurricular patrols for Wards, especially solo ones, and double especially when there’s actually a decent chance of finding trouble… They’re kind of a grey area. Not technically forbidden, except when they are, but not exactly permitted, either. And definitely not encouraged. Not officially.”

“And unofficially?” I asked when he paused.

“Still not encouraged, but tolerated as long as you follow the number one rule: don’t cause trouble for the PRT. Basically, don’t get yourself killed or maimed, don’t cause too much collateral damage and don’t draw too much attention. Capisce?”

I tried to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. I took a breath and tried again. “I understand.” I forced myself to hold his gaze, despite the temptation to look away. “You’re saying I did fuck up.”

“Am I?”

He was clearly giving me just enough rope to hang myself, but fuck it. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be done with this.

“I caused collateral damage.” Impact damage I hadn’t been able to stop. Chunks of sidewalk and road I’d ripped up. Metal I’d claimed. Brickwork I’d dusted. A street light I’d broken. “I drew attention.”

“Ehhh.” He shrugged. “It could’ve been worse. Anyway, you’re not all that well known yet. People probably didn’t even realise you were a Ward. It’s not like you were in costume.”

“Ms Price isn’t going to be too happy about that.” Nor would the people in Branding. They’d all been very clear on the fact that if I went out as a cape, I was to be in my approved costume. Then again, that was based on the assumption that I’d be out there on an authorised patrol or operation.

“Only if they find out.”

Was he fucking with me again?

“Why wouldn’t they find out?”

“Well, I’m not going to tell them.”

“But…” I studied him for a moment, searching in vain for any clues as to what was going through his head. Nothing but that damnable smirk. “There were PRT squaddies on site. They must have studied the scene, interviewed witnesses, submitted reports…” They weren’t blind, for fuck’s sake! Or incompetent, I assumed, and they knew what I could do. “The… The director sees those reports.”

From what I’d seen of her, Director Piggot didn’t seem the type of person to shirk the responsibilities of her post. So the fact that one Protectorate cape didn’t seem to give a flying fuck about what I’d done didn’t mean a damn thing. My pulse pounded, my head throbbing in time with it, and I struggled to catch my breath.

“Ah but you see, the thing about scene reports is, they’re supposed to be all ‘just the facts, Ethan’, and ’no one wants to know your half-assed theories, Ethan, so just stick to what actually happened’ and ‘for God’s sake, Ethan, can’t you write up a simple incident report without turning it into a damn soap opera?’ “ His expression softened a little, although the smirk remained. “Just between you and me, Battery makes the cutest little face when she’s getting on my case about ‘proper procedure’ and ‘doing things by the book’.” He made air-quotes around the phrases. “It’s honestly adorable. Kiiiinda not a million miles away from the face you’re making right now.”

I hastily schooled my features into something like neutrality, too frazzled to even really be angry about the implication that I was ‘adorable’ in any way, shape or form.

“I’m not making a face,” I said, as guilelessly as I could. “I’m just” — _Fuck, I didn’t think this through_ — “listening.”

“Uhuh. Sure, kid, I believe you. But anyway, I digress.” _No shit, Sherlock!_ “My **point** is that you weren’t caught red-handed. Not officially. Which means that the PRT officers on scene didn’t have to name you. Officially. Which means that, officially speaking, the inestimable Director Piggot doesn’t need to know that you were involved at all.”

I turned that over in my mind.

“She does know, though,” I said, because anything else didn’t make one fucking iota of sense. “She has to.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “Of course she knows,” he said, and my face burned at his exaggeratedly indulgent tone. “But she doesn’t officially know. And believe me, that makes all the difference.”

“And if she did? Officially know, I mean.”

The word ‘officially’ was starting to lose its meaning, becoming nothing more than a nonsense sequence of syllables.

“Then the situation would be more complicated, but still not unsalvageable. Like I said: not technically forbidden.”

He’d also said ‘not technically permitted’, but I didn’t have the brainpower to get into the nitty gritty of semantics right now. It was obviously something I was going to have to research, though. _Sometime when I’m actually more than halfway conscious._

“So,” I began, forcing my thoughts into some semblance of order. “What does all this” —I probably shouldn’t call it legalistic jiggery pokery— “mean for me?” I was rapidly losing patience with this stupid goddamn game of his. Whatever I’d done to provoke him into fucking with me like this, I wished he’d just hurry up and cut to the chase.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Tell me about last night’s extracurricular patrol.”

I stared at him. He stared back. I weighed my options — which didn’t take long, considering that I had none — and did as ordered. I kept my account brief, dry, and relatively truthful, omitting only that I hadn’t been alone, that I hadn’t just randomly stumbled across the gang fight and that my asshole brother had been there with the enemy. Ethan mostly let me talk, only rarely interrupting to clarify some point or other. He was… surprisingly professional about it, other than not taking notes. Then again, if this was all being kept ‘unofficial’, it made sense not to write anything down.

“And that’s when you encountered me,” I concluded.

“Fleeing the scene,” Ethan observed redundantly.

“Yes.”

He regarded me for what felt like a long time, his expression serious. It looked odd on him.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Leave?”

“No. Why’d you go out in the first place?”

_Damn good question. I wish I fucking knew._

There were obvious answers, of course. Backing up a teammate. Dealing with some assholes who really needed to be dealt with. Proving that I could handle being a Ward. Proving I wasn’t a fucking nazi. (Not that I really cared what Hess thought of me, but it would make working together easier if she didn’t have any doubts about where my loyalties lay, or about whether I could do the job.) But I couldn’t say any of that. In the end, there was only one answer I could give. It was even true.

“I was going completely fucking stir crazy stuck in here.”

“Ah. Sucks, doesn’t it.”

I gave him a sharp look, but for once there wasn’t any obvious mockery in his face or voice. His lips were curved, but the expression was oddly gentle; more of a smile than a smirk. The only thing I saw in his eyes was something that could’ve been understanding, or maybe even… sympathy? I had to look away for a moment, fiddling unnecessarily with my sling again to give myself an excuse.

“Yeah.” I sighed, struggling to find the energy not to slump in my chair. My eyelids felt leaden again, and I could feel the black waters of exhaustion waiting to drag me under. Even with anticipation crackling along my nerves, I was barely keeping the tiredness at bay. “I just feel so restless all the goddamn time.” I realised what I’d said and held back a wince. “Felt restless, I mean,” I hurried to correct myself. “And it was only getting worse, no matter what I did. So I thought going out might… help.”

“Did it?”

I opened my mouth to give some safe, noncommittal, not-technically-dishonest answer like ‘I don’t know’, but a harsh bray of laughter tore itself free from my throat. “Well, apparently I’m still twitchy as fuck. And I wrecked my carpet. So, who the hell knows?”

Some distant part of me was frozen in horror at my disrespect to a superior officer, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. If he wanted to discipline me he’d find an excuse no matter how respectful I was. He wouldn’t even have to try that hard.

_I just want this day to be done._

“It gets easier,” he said quietly, and I remembered Missy saying those exact same words to me after I’d nearly skewered her with metal spikes.

“Does it?”

“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant and unreadable. “I’ve been where you are, more or less. I know this might shock you, but I don’t do well with being hemmed in at every turn by rules and regulations and procedures and oversight. There was something of a, let’s call it an adjustment period when I first joined up. Wasn’t easy. But I got through it.” His gaze focused again, that obnoxious smirk spreading across his face as he spread his arms expansively. “And now I’m the functional and productive member of society you see before you today.”

_What did they do to you?_ I only just stopped myself from asking aloud. _How did the Protectorate bring you to heel?_

Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t effective, but they must have done **something** ; must have had some way of guaranteeing his good behaviour. The Protectorate wouldn’t just accept a former enemy into their ranks without some way of ensuring that the act didn’t come back to bite them in the ass. It didn’t make sense.

“I see,” I said softly.

“Oh, I doubt that. But my point is that a lot us have experienced something similar, and we all got through it.”

“I know that,” I not-quite-snapped, stung that he’d think I wouldn’t; that I’d crumble so easily. “I can cope with a little restlessness.”

_I just need to work on my control._

“You are a prickly one, aren’t you?” And the smirk was back. Because of course it fucking was.

_Asshole._

“I intended no disrespect,” I said stiffly.

“No.” He wagged his finger at me and I tensed. “We’re past that. No backsliding.”

He wanted me to be disrespectful? What, did he need even more excuses to discipline the shit out of me? Didn’t he have enough already? Or maybe he was just trying to put me off guard so I’d get comfortable and give away something I shouldn’t. Maybe he suspected I hadn’t been entirely forthcoming about my background; maybe he was just trying to get me to relax enough that I might slip up. Or…

_Or maybe he’s the kind of person wouldn’t know formality if it bit him on the ass, and I’m just being a tiny bit paranoid._

Maybe.

Fuck me. I was not anywhere near awake enough for this.

“Fine,” I said, my patience in tatters. “Then, since I’m being candid and all, what’s the damage?”

He blinked at me, and the sight of his confusion was more satisfying than was probably wise. “The damage?”

“You’ve debriefed me about last night. You know what happened; what I did. How I fucked up. So, how much trouble am I in? What’s going to happen now?”

I kept my voice steady, meeting his gaze like my stomach wasn’t turning somersaults; like it didn’t feel as though the walls were closing in around me. Like dread wasn’t turning my blood to ice in my veins.

(It would be okay. It would. However bad it was, however bad it could get, I would survive it. And afterwards, I’d just put the shattered pieces of myself back together again, the way I always did. The way I’d been doing since just about as long as I could remember. All the kings horses and all the kings men had absolutely nothing on me.)

“You didn’t, actually.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Fuck up.”

Now it was my turn to stare, blinking foolishly. “What?”

“Believe it or not, the PRT isn’t in the habit of punishing people for preventing a murder.”

“Oh.” He seemed… sincere, at least as far as I could tell. But even if he was — and even if he was right — there were still my many, many other mistakes to account for. “But when I fought Rune, I—”

“You couldn’t have known she was going to come swooping in like some kind of avenging Aryan angel. And from the sounds of it, you did everything you could to keep civilians out of her line of fire.”

“I tried.” My voice sounded small and weak. I made an effort to strengthen it as I said, “But I caused a lot of collateral damage along the way.”

“Yeah, that’s not great. But you had to defend yourself. That makes it justified in my book.”

“But what about—”

“It’s fine.”

He didn’t even know what I was going to say!

“But I—”

“I said it’s fine.”

“But—”

“Do you want to be in trouble?” he burst out exasperatedly. “Do you actually want to be put on punishment detail? Because that’s what it’s starting to sound like to me.”

“No, of course not,” I muttered, heat spreading all the way up to my hairline and all the way down to my neck. “I just want to know where I stand, that’s all. I want to know what to expect. Is that so hard to understand?”

He let the silence pool awkwardly between us for a long, uncomfortable moment before he answered.

“No, I get it,” he said, and the understanding in those words made my skin crawl like it was trying to crawl right off my body and slither off to somewhere, anywhere else. I understood exactly how it felt. “You don’t want to end up being blindsided, right?”

“Right,” I said, when he seemed to expect a response.

“Well, kid, I’m telling you that’s not going to happen. Trust me.” He beamed at me with what was probably supposed to be a winning smile, but it wilted a little around the edges when I just watched him warily. “What? Still not convinced?”

“I just don’t understand how this works,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying, cringing inside at how plaintive I sounded. “It just seems so fucking arbitrary. Rules aren’t supposed to be up for interpretation. They’re **rules**. They’re supposed to be consistent.” I’d been so convinced I was crossing a line; that if I was caught I’d be disciplined for it. I’d made my peace with that and been willing to take the risk. But Ethan had basically just yanked not just the rugout from under me but the very ground itself, and now I was flailing helplessly in free fall as I tried to make sense of the utterly nonsensical. “You basically said that unauthorised patrols are… are…”

_Words! Treacherous little fuckers, either forcing themselves out where they didn’t belong, or deserting me when I needed them the most._

“They’re Schrödinger’s fucking infraction!” I burst out. “If my superiors want to let it go, they can. But if they want to make something of it, well, they can do that too. And until they make that decision, I’m just stuck in fucking limbo waiting for the hammer to fall.” I shook my head as if that would somehow make the pieces click into place. It didn’t. “And it doesn’t matter whether or not **you** think I fucked up, because anyone above you in the chain of command can just decide differently, and the first I’ll know about it will be when someone—”

Suddenly realising where that sentence was going to end, I slammed on the metaphorical brakes, catching my treacherous tongue between my teeth. (At this rate, I was going to be tasting blood all day. Whatever. It didn’t matter. Anyway, I deserved it.)

“When someone what?” Ethan asked mildly, his eyebrows raised in a mockery of polite curiosity.

“Nothing,” I tried not to snarl. “It doesn’t matter.” I took a deep, not-at-all calming breath. “I… didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry. Please disregard it.”

_And kindly fuck off and leave me to my misery._ Why was he even still here? Was he planning on fucking with me some more? Hellfire and damnation. _Why won’t you just leave?_

“No, I don’t think I will,” he said. “And I told you to stop apologising. I’m not going to get bent out of shape because some wound-too-tight kid yells at me. Believe it or not, my ego isn’t that frail, so... do you have anything else you want to get off your chest while you’re at it? Insulting my costume, maybe? My hair? My inimitable way with words?”

_You’re a patronising asshole. I want to punch that stupid smirk right off your fucking smug face. Just tell me whether or not I have to obey you without being so goddamn ineffable about it! What the fuck did I ever do to you to make you want to torment me like this?_

“Your helmet design is suboptimal,” I muttered. “It should cover your whole head. And I’m really not a fucking child, no matter how many times people tell me I am.”

“Is that it?” Ethan asked, after a moment.

“Yeah. I’m done.”

“Okay, then. My turn.” He leaned forward in his seat. My stomach flip-flopping queasily, I straightened in mine, keeping a wary eye on him. (Not that being alert was going to do me any good. If he was going to put me in my place, it wasn’t like there was anything I could do about it. Not without making more trouble for myself.) “First,” he said, “Director Piggot isn’t going to overrule me on this. When I talked to her earlier, she seemed reasonably pleased with how things turned out. And trust me kid, I would know if she was pissed. We all would.”

“You spoke to the director about me?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Ah ah ah,” the asshole sing-songed, wagging his fucking finger at me. “You had your turn. The adult is talking. But the answer is yes. Her Royal Highness summoned me to her fiefdom to interrogate me about the events of last night. And I’ll be going back there to dot the t’s and cross the i’s when I’m done with you.” I really, really wanted to correct his mangling of the saying, but I resisted the urge. Anyway, I was pretty sure he’d done it on purpose just to mess with me. “Nothing I have to tell her will make her change her mind on this, though. Trust me, Astrid. You’re not in trouble, and you’re not going to be. At least, not for last night’s little jaunt, okay?”

It felt weird to hear him say my name. Weird, but better than being called ‘kid’. Or ‘girl’.

“Okay,” I echoed softly. I supposed I’d have to just take his word on the director’s verdict. (And hope he hadn’t drastically misread the situation.)

“Hallelujah,” he sighed, and then grinned at me. “Second, you clearly have a lot to learn about the way things really work around here. But never fear! As your mentor, I will tirelessly strive to correct those misapprehensions. We’ll have you sassing Kermit's girlfriend in no time flat.”

“What?” I stared at him in confused horror. “My… mentor?”

“Of course! You do know about the mentor programme, right? Wards paired with Protectorate heroes so they can learn by example? Something something team building blah blah training yada yada networking?”

“I know about it,” I said stiffly. In point of fact, I’d been dreading and looking forward to it in equal measure. I’d been trying not to get my hopes up about being mentored by Miss Militia. “Are you saying I’ve been assigned to you?”

“ ‘Assigned to’? Geez, kid, way to make yourself sound like paperwork. No, I volunteered.” He pulled a face. “Well, two parts volunteered to one part voluntold, really, but I could have argued about it if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t argue, so here we are.” He paused. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” I said belatedly, concealing my dismay as best as I could. “I… appreciate it.”

“No you don’t,” he said affably. “But by the time I’m done with you, you will. You’ll see. It’ll be fun!”

_Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is just some kind of nightmare, and I’m going to wake up any second now. Any… second… now._

But even as the thought flitted across my mind, I knew that my hope — thin and flimsy as it was — was a futile one. I tried to look on the bright side. As sloppy and irreverent as he was, Assault was actually an experienced cape. I could learn a lot from him about cape fights, even though I would take whatever he told me about rules and regulations with a handful of salt,. And if he was mentoring me, maybe I’d have an opportunity to subtly ask him about his former life as a villain. Maybe I wouldn’t need to ask at all. With how much the man flapped his gums, there was a chance he’d tell me about it all of his own accord.

_Knowing him, he’ll probably brag about it._

“So, what happens now?” I asked cautiously. “How is this mentorship thing going to work?”

“I’ll, uh… get back to you on that. I guess I should show you around the Rig, introduce you to people. Maybe take you out on patrol when that comes off.” He nodded at my sling.

“Have you mentored Wards before?”

“Kinda, but it was more of an ad hoc sort of thing, and it didn’t really… I mean, it… Never mind. This time will go much better, I’m sure of it!”

That… really wasn’t encouraging. I made a mental note to ask my teammates if any of them had been ‘honoured’ by his mentorship in the past. _Well,_ I amended, _I’ll ask the ones who are still talking to me, anyway._

(’Soon that’ll be none of them,’ whispered a poisonous voice in the back of my mind that sounded not entirely unlike Lance. ‘You can’t hide who you are forever, and when they realise what a psycho bitch you are, they’ll fucking turn on you.’)

“Can you give me an idea of what the schedule will be like, at least?” I asked, without any real hope of an answer. “It’s just that I have a lot of work to do, and it will help me plan my time better if I—”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said dismissively. “Like I said, I’ll get back to you.” Fucking awesome. I was being mentored by a careless slacker with absolutely zero respect for rules and with what I could charitably call a really fucking cavalier attitude toward the chain of command. What could possibly go wrong? “So,” he said, and he actually sounded a little… commanding? “If I’m going to do a good job as your mentor, there’s a very important question I’m going to need you to answer for me.”

“Yes?” I only just stopped myself from adding ‘Sir’ to that. “What is it?”

His expression utterly, completely serious, he asked, “What do you do for fun?” I stared blankly, sure I must have misheard him, and he frowned. “You do know what fun is, right?”

“Of course I do,” I muttered. “And I generally” — _do my level best to beat the shit out of someone who’s trying to do the same to me_ — “exercise, or experiment with my power.” An image of Ms Grant frowning in disapproval made me hurry to add, “Or I read.”

_Which reminds me, I really need to finish that…_

“That’s it?” Ethan gave me a look of utter shock. “Seriously? You really do need my help.”

If I looked up, I thought I’d see ominous black thunder clouds gathering over my head; a portent of approaching doom.

“I’m just… busy,” I told him, striving to keep the dread from my voice. “I’ve got a lot of things to do at the moment. I don’t really have a lot of time for fun.”

“Kid,” he pronounced grandly, “There is always time for fun. If you learn only one thing from me during our time together, let it be that.” I made a noncommittal, vaguely agreeable-sounding noise, but he wasn’t even listening, too caught up in his ideas for how best he could fuck up my life. Or, at least, my schedule.

_So,_ I thought glumly. _Assault is going to be my mentor, and the first thing he wants me to do is to start slacking off._

I almost wished he’d come here to discipline me after all.


End file.
